Creatures of Kindness
by Aurelia Kubelmanczyk
Summary: Frankenstein's lonely creature learns what it means to love and be loved in this alternative universe where he stays at the Grand Guignol. A sweet, uplifting tale of kindred, suffering spirits finding one another.


**CHAPTER ONE**

 **WINGS**

Beneath the rows of velvet seats and the wooden planks of the stage; beneath the stretch where, nightly, audience members chattered merrily and gasped and laughed and applauded; beneath the places where actors stood waiting for their entrances or delivering their best to the anticipating eyes of the crowd; beneath this brightly-lit world of fantasy layered upon reality, lay a different world.

This place, hung low with heavy wooden beams and columns, was thick with levers and pulleys, ropes, cables, and chains, wheels and platforms, switches and handles. This place was cramped with lumber and tools, stored scenery and props, costumes and makeup, and all the many crates and barrels of all the many magic-making devices theater required. And in this place, along the far brick wall, was a dingy little space dimly lit by a single lamp, the meager glow from a tiny iron stove, and a small, dirty, grated window looking out on the filthy street. An old, stained mattress with a threadbare blanket and sad little pillow lay crumpled lumpily near the corner. Above it was visible a little shelf crammed with books of poetry, beneath which were the necessary artifacts of minimum required hygiene and human upkeep. By the little stove, from a large, rough nail in a broad, wooden beam, hung a long, thick, black, double-breasted greatcoat with a high collar, worn and simple, but serviceable and much treasured by its owner.

He sat in the quiet of the night on a little stool, leaning his back against a column, facing the brick wall. Sighing, he let his eyes go out of focus as they fixed upon the glow of the lamp on the wall. The audience had long since departed, and he had finished all his chores: resetting props and scenery for tomorrow's rehearsals and performances, his portion of cleaning the stage and auditorium, and checking all the lighting and fixtures and mechanical wizardry he operated during the shows. Very distantly, he heard the last of the actors and crew disappear, laughing together, out the backstage door, undoubtedly on their way to their warm, cheerful homes, or out to make merry as they did every night. Without him.

The whole world moved without him.

And he would sit in this solitary silence until the distant sounds of their voices hours later indicated their return as those who resided at the theater headed to their dormitories, high above his shadowy realm, in the upper floors of the building, where the light of the sun would kiss them awake each morning.

They were bright and beautiful creatures, these people who gave life to the theater, and under the leadership of Vincent, who had rescued him, they formed a merry, lively company. It was his great pleasure and torment to watch them from the shadows as they went about their existence, wholly absorbed in their own doings, largely unaware of his yellow eyes following them. It was as if they existed in another world, and he could see them through the veil, himself all but invisible behind it; though it was only through the mighty twist and pull of his muscle and sinew, the quick workings of his agile mind and inhuman body, that the magic of their performance was ever given true life.

Vincent understood and appreciated this, if no one else did, and it was Vincent alone who would sometimes converse with the lonely creature, would sometimes invite him to join in a simple dinner or a drink. And Vincent alone seemed unaffected by the sight of his monstrous, pale, scarred face. True, many of the cast and crew paid him little mind, accustomed as they were to all things bizarre. But many others would simply avert their eyes, avoid his presence. Precious few cared enough to show him anything beyond the most basic civility. Worst, however, were those who looked upon him, even in this place full of oddity and strangeness, with contempt, disgust, even hatred. These, he tried to avoid, but in that tightly-knit world, their interactions were inevitable. Yes, in all the cold world, only Vincent had ever been a glimpse of true warmth.

But it was not Vincent's step on the stair across the basement that he heard that night. Still facing the brick wall, eyes still fixed on the glow of the lamp, he stiffened, his ears perking up as the first sound of soft footfalls reached him. He narrowed his eyes, focusing his entire self on listening.

"He-hello?" a soft, flute-like voice timidly breathed as the footfalls paused on the stair.

He knew at once it was the new woman. She had only joined a week ago, and tonight had been her first performance, after a week of torturously long rehearsals to train her to replace Maude, who had left the company. Eloise Hargrave was this young lady's name, and Vincent had confided to him that the troupe was lucky to have her, an observation with which the lonely creature had agreed, for a number of reasons. Her first performance tonight had been a great success, and he was more than surprised that she was still here at the theater, not out reveling with the rest of the company.

"Yes, Miss," he acknowledged softly, rising and turning so he would be silhouetted against the light of his lamp, and grateful that his face was in the distance where the light from the stair could not reach it.

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir," she breathed. "I know how very hard you've worked tonight, and I'm. . .sure you've rightly earned your rest." She paused, her eyes searching and failing to find his face in the shadow. Her gaze traveled down his arm to his pale hand, which he slowly drew also into the shadows.

"It's all right, Miss," he assured her gently, curious, watching. She was in her own clothes now, her shapely form draped in the simple dress she had arrived in a week before, and she stood meekly on the bottom stair as if afraid to set foot upon the floor of his domain. Her long, soft brown hair was pulled back over her shoulders, and her pretty face was pink and freshly washed from its post-performance scrubbing. In her two little hands she gently clutched the pair of angel wings he'd made from wood and fabric for her costume for Act Two, and her eyes darted guiltily from the wings, to the floor, to his shadowed face, and back again. "Is there a problem with your costume?"

"I'm ever so sorry, sir," she lamented remorsefully, "but I've somehow managed to break the wing brace, here." Her delicate fingertips traced the now crooked section of wing. "I wouldn't have bothered you tonight, sir, only Simon and Charlotte both told me I had better bring them to you straightaway, rather than to wait."

"It's. . .not a problem," he told her softly, stepping toward her, careful to keep to the shadows even though it caused him to take an obviously indirect path. "I'll fix it at once."

"You don't have to trouble right away," she shook her head, shifting her weight uncomfortably. "I won't need them again until. . ."

"It's no trouble, Miss," he insisted timidly, drawing near.

"Well, can I help in any way?" she asked, dropping her eyes shyly to the wings as his legs entered the light of the stair.

He stopped, reaching out a pale hand quickly to take the wings, which she released as she looked up toward his face. But he turned and ducked swiftly away. "No, I'll do it," he told her gently. "Thank you, Miss," he added, turning the side of his head shrouded in long, lank, black hair toward her and bobbing it in acknowledgement. She stood frozen on the stair as he made his way to a workbench and began his operation on the wings.

"I'm amazed you can see what you're doing with that, in this dark," she murmured softly as he popped the stitching and deftly maneuvered the broken wooden pole out of the fabric frame of the wing.

He sniffed a little, rueful laugh out his nose. "The dark. . .suits me better than it might suit others, perhaps," he observed calmly, reaching for a new pole from a rack beside the workbench.

"Do you prefer it?" she asked.

"No," he answered quietly after a beat, then hesitated, before adding, "but perhaps it. . . prefers me."

"I'm sure that's not true," Eloise's soft voice spoke earnestly after a pause. Swallowing, he checked, and could feel her gaze at his back as he fitted the new pole into the slot in the wing; and he felt her eyes follow him as he moved to a different station where he produced a needle and some sturdy thread. "Shall I do that, sir? I'm a good hand at sewing," she offered eagerly, though her voice was meek.

He raised his face, realized it was in the light, and quickly dropped it again as he replied, "You needn't, Miss Hargrave - it'll only take me a moment." Turning toward the shadows, he quickly stitched the slot shut, then set down his supplies, tested the stretch of the repaired wing, and was done. He approached the stairs again cautiously as Eloise stood fixed to her spot, watching and waiting.

"You're a magician, sir," she breathed, admiring the repaired wings as he passed them to her from out of the shadows. She grinned sweetly toward him. "Thank you very much, Mr. . .?"

"Ah. . .I am called. . .Caliban," he murmured, wincing slightly as her eyes sought his face. He took a step back farther into shadow and felt his legs press against a crate.

"Oh," her grin faded. "But surely that's not your name, sir?"

"Ah, yes. . ." he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, blinking back at her, wondering how much of him she could see. He hid his hands in the pockets of his overalls, his brow furrowing worriedly. This was the first time they had ever spoken, and he had not anticipated even this many words to pass between them.

"Forgive me, but. . .surely, it's not the name you were born with?" she pressed gently, her pretty face searching his shadowed form with a gentle expression.

"No, Miss," he answered, then faltered. After all, he was a nameless beast. He lowered his eyes, reflecting upon his agonizing birth, and the fact that even his father, his creator, had not loved him enough to look at him, let alone to give him a name.

The young woman blinked, dropping her eyes to the wings as she ran her fingers over them for a second. Then she murmured quietly, "Must I call you that, sir?"

". . .Miss?" he breathed, befuddled.

"It doesn't seem right to call you Caliban, sir," she explained softly, raising her face toward him again, "since. . .Caliban was monstrous." He saw her throat bob as she swallowed nervously, her eyes searching sadly. "I don't think you're monstrous at all," she finished bravely, then dropped her eyes to the wings again. "Not all that's different in this world deserves scorn," she added with honest conviction, and raised her eyes, awaiting a response.

He could only stand watching her, wide-eyed, his brow raised in astonishment, his lips parted in surprise.

In the absence of a response, she went bravely on. "I've known my share of monsters, sir, and they can be outwardly as beautiful as you could imagine." She paused, raising her eyebrows and tilting her head as she considered. "In my experience, the more beautiful the man, the more awful he will be to wom. . .to others." She glanced down, her fingers playing at the angel wings again. "As if beauty gives license to be cruel," she murmured half to herself.

"Not so, in your case, it seems," he murmured softly.

She grinned sadly and raised her face. "Thank you, sir," she dipped her head, then lowered her eyes again. There was a pause during which he studied her intently while she seemed to disappear into herself. Then she raised her eyes toward him and spoke again. "I'm sorry I never found you to introduce myself. This week has been. . ." she trailed off, shaking her head with a sigh.

"Yes, Miss, I've seen how busy you've been. But you've. . .done remarkably well, if I may say so. We're blessed to have you," he assured her bravely, grinning encouragingly, then remembered she likely couldn't see his expression.

"How kind you are, sir," she grinned. "I'm ever so lucky to be here! If Vincent hadn't brought me on, I don't know. . ." she trailed off, looking down again as she slowly shook her head.

He wondered where she had come from. Vincent hadn't said. He wondered if she was melancholy, or merely tired. Perhaps both. He would be both, he was sure, if he were capable of the latter.

She spoke again. "But what shall I call you, sir? You haven't said." He longed to step out into the light where those bright, searching eyes could fall upon him, but didn't dare.

"I. . .don't know. . ." he frowned, at a loss.

She blinked at him for a moment, stroking the wings in her hands, then grew still. A little, slow smile grew across her lips, curving her gentle eyes. "That's all right, sir," she breathed softly. "May I call you 'Friend?'"

He grinned, his undead heart lurching in his breast. "Yes. Yes," he breathed.

"Very well. Thank you," she smiled, raising the wings slightly. "Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight, Miss Hargrave," he replied.

"Eloise," she corrected, "if we're friends now."

"Goodnight. . .Eloise," he murmured shyly.

"Goodnight, Friend," she breathed softly, and with a shy smile, she turned and climbed the stairs, disappearing from his sight.

The next night, shortly before the close of Act One, he rushed down the ladder from the catwalk on the stage left side, and darted agilely between a set piece of a large tree and another of a castle drawbridge. Rounding the corner as he headed down the dark backstage corridor, he listened to the applause and knew he had plenty of time to get to his next place, to operate the trap door under center stage. Still, he liked to be early to his next post, and so he bobbed to and fro between props, cursing Simon for leaving them lying about in such a haphazard way. That damned animal could never be bothered to put anything back, even though he nearly always had the opportunity. The lonely creature was sure Simon did this on purpose so that _he_ would have more work at the end of each long night. Hesitating as he considered whether or not to pick up a few things now for the sake of safety, he listened and realized that James had missed a few lines, meaning the scene was progressing faster than it should. He heard Vincent skillfully improvise to cover the error and had to pause, tilting his head in admiration of the man's talent and professionalism. If only Simon would learn a few things from Vincent – not only about acting, but about life as well.

A rustling of fabrics in the shadowed section of the corridor beyond the one dim lamp above him made him look up in alarm. Eloise swished into the light, rushing quietly toward him, her face a mask of panic. He froze stiff with worry, waiting.

"Friend! Oh, Friend!" she cried in a hushed whisper. She clamored toward him, and before he could warn her, she tripped violently over an urn the callous Simon had left on the floor in shadow, and tumbled over. Her hands, clutching her skirts in a raised position to facilitate her running, left her unable to catch herself, and she went over a rough wooden crate rather noisily. The creature lunged forward, pushing his foot out to stall the motion of the crate even as he caught Eloise in his arms. She clung to him, staring up into his face in terror. He winced but could not release her.

"I'm sorry!" she rasped, her body sagging in his arms. She bit her lip and, still clutching him, cast terrified eyes toward the light coming from the stage. He felt her heart pound against his breast. Was it possible her fear was solely for the performance, and not for his face? He had no time to process this amazement before she spoke again, when she was sure that the performance went on uninterrupted. Turning her frightened eyes back up to him as he set her upright on her feet, she whispered hoarsely, "Friend! I'm sorry! Have you seen my lantern? I can't find it anywhere! I can't do the scene without it!" Her fingers clutched his shoulders, and her breath stalled as her eyes glistened with the very beginning of frantic tears.

"Yes, I – I think it's over on stage right, by the basket of apples," he whispered distractedly. He was ashamed that he could think of little else but her beauty and warmth in his hands.

"Oh!" she sighed in frustration, frowning, and cast her eyes over her shoulder, down the darkened corridor from which she'd come. Her legs sagged again, and her fingers slipped from his sleeves at last.

"I'll fetch it," he told her, freeing her reluctantly from his grasp.

"Oh, thank you!" she whispered earnestly, her fingers brushing his shoulder as he rushed away into the shadows. His mind hazy with feeling, he slalomed between props and set pieces on fleet foot, ghosted between Charlotte and the wall of the stage right wing, snatched the needed prop from its place where he had predicted it stood – though it had indeed been pushed back into the shadow behind the basket - and maneuvered deftly back to Eloise, who stood with one hand braced on the wall, her other lifting her skirt to reveal a trail of blood that ran down her shin.

"You're hurt!" he whispered sharply in concern as he drew even with her.

"Yes," she admitted in a pained hiss, dropping her skirts and reaching a trembling hand toward him to take the lantern. "It's nearly time for my entrance, though!" She stood upright, hopping uncomfortably as her weight hit the injured leg. Her lips pressed together in a tight line, and her smooth brow furrowed. The creature reached his hands out toward her helplessly. "The show must go on!" she whispered ruefully with a raised brow and a sigh that the creature echoed sympathetically. " _Thank_ you!" she breathed, clutching his sleeve adamantly, then darted away into the stage left wing. He watched her skirts disappear into the stage door, shook his head as if to wake himself, and remembered his duty, scrambling back down the hallway toward the stair that would carry him to his realm beneath the stage. He padded swiftly down the stairs, swept over to the crank that operated the trap door platform, and stood listening, his hands poised and ready.

"Lo, husband! It is I, your dear, beloved wife!" he heard Eloise enter on the stage above, no trace of panic, pain, or rushing in her drawling tone as she assumed her character with utter professionalism. He grinned, his heart glowing with pride for her. What a fine performer she was! What a fine woman. . .

When the act was over and the applause that commenced intermission sounded, he climbed upstairs to begin the routine of making sure everything was in place for Act Two, and met Eloise in the backstage hallway, where she seemed pleased to encounter him. She limped toward him, grinning nonetheless, as she came from her exit off of stage right.

"Friend!" she greeted him breathlessly. "How you _saved_ me! Thank you again!"

He dipped his head in meek acknowledgement, and kept it bowed from the light. "How's your leg, Miss?"

"Oh, it does hurt quite a bit," she admitted, lifting her skirt to examine the cut that still bled down into her slipper. "I was just heading upstairs to tend it."

"It looks bad, Miss," the creature observed in dismay, noting the significant blood that coated her lower leg and stained her slipper. "You'll leave a trail if you go all that way." She met his eyes and looked equally dismayed by this truth. "May I. . .?" he asked her very shyly, pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of his overalls.

Eloise nodded, lifting her skirts and presenting her injured leg to him, which he knelt down and swabbed with the handkerchief, very gingerly. "You're to wear the white hose in the next few scenes, isn't that right?"

"Yes," she nodded, wincing not from pain but from the realization, her fingertips touching her lips as she waited for him to go on.

"That's unfortunate," he sighed, "but if we clean you up and bandage it properly, you should be able to pull the hose on over it without it showing."

"We?" she breathed, and he looked up at once. If he could have blushed at her sad little grin, he would have.

He dropped his head again, holding the handkerchief gently against her open wound with just two fingertips, pulling the rest of himself as far away from her as he could manage. What had come over him? Why had he thought it would be all right to lay hands upon this woman, even to help her? Surely, he had horrified her. . . "I'm sorry, Miss, I didn't mean to be forward, or rude, or. . ."

"No, please, I'm not. . .overly fond of. . .wounds," she admitted shyly, shaking her head as she sighed out her nose. "Please - if you have the time, that is - I could really use the help." He met her eyes, gauged her sincerity, overcame his disbelief, and carefully tied the handkerchief around her calf.

"Come with me?" he offered, standing and gesturing toward the stair that led down to his world. She nodded and limped toward it. He offered her his arm, which she took without hesitation, and he helped her down the stairs. She was trembling. . .He would make this quick and free her as soon as possible from his dreadful company.

"I'm so sorry to be such trouble," she lamented earnestly. "You'll be tired of my antics soon, if you're not already. . ."

"You're no trouble, Miss," he told her as he fetched some clean water, a clean handkerchief, and some white fabric. "That crate and urn were supposed to have been stored properly backstage left," he muttered in irritation and apology as he sat her upon a stool and gingerly propped her ankle across his knee. Hissing between her teeth, Eloise pulled up her skirts to reveal her leg. He had positioned himself so his back was to the light, and so that his hair would fall between his face and her eyes. In his peripheral, he saw her look away from her wound as he leaned down to examine it. Taking great care, he pulled a nasty splinter of wood from her torn flesh, pausing as she twitched in pain with a little cry. "I'm sorry, Miss," he breathed.

"Eloise," she sighed, strained with discomfort, her eyes squeezed shut. "I should think we're friends, now, most definitely!" A little snorting breath escaped her nose – a laugh.

He blinked in disbelief, then grinned with one side of his mouth and set about swabbing her smooth, pink flesh clean with as gentle a hand as he could manage. His fingers were such an ugly, lifeless pale abomination next to the soft color of her living skin, the shocking red of her blood. His brow furrowed painfully as he tended her, cleaning her wound and pressing it with one hand, while swabbing the rest of her leg clean of blood with the other. He wondered if he would ever have another opportunity to lay hands upon a woman, and marveled that he had occasion – and indeed, the courage – to do so now.

"Your touch is so cool," she whispered, and he chanced a glance toward her. Her eyes were still closed, and he gazed at her for a moment.

"I'm sorry," he replied automatically.

"No," she shook her head at once, opening her eyes, and he glanced immediately away. "It's a comfort," she told him. "Soothing, like."

His breath stalled in his throat, and he finished swabbing, then released her wound to free both hands for tearing a strip of the white fabric. This bandage he wrapped and bound carefully around her leg, apologizing as she gasped with the final tug of the tying, and he tucked the ends delicately into the folds to make the bandage as smooth and streamlined as possible.

"Is there much more blood?" Eloise asked quietly, her eyes clamped shut.

"I'm afraid it's run into your slipper," he told her reluctantly. When she sighed in dismay, opening her eyes, he offered, "I'll see to it." He gently removed the bloodied slipper from her foot, and washed her there, as well. "This could stain if it's left," he observed then, lowering her leg with great care and picking up the bloodied slipper, surveying its saturated side.

"Oh, no!" Eloise cried, her mouth making a little 'o' of horror as she saw it.

"I'll see to it," he told her, standing and taking the slipper to a little wash basin, where he dunked it in the water and began to scrub at it. "Just like the false blood, the real blood would surely set in the fabric if not washed straight away," he murmured, filling the space awkwardly as he felt her eyes on his back again. Such blood he had spilt. This fragile human woman would flee in horror if only she knew. . .In a quick moment, however, he had the fabric clean, and wrung the slipper out over the basin, shaking it lightly, before he turned to present it to her.

"Oh, Friend!" she cried softly with gratitude. "How many thanks I owe you now!" She pulled the damp slipper back over her foot.

"It's nothing," he kept his head low.

"Not to me, it isn't," she shook her head as he helped her to stand. "How lucky we are to have you," she breathed earnestly, and he felt her trying to catch his eyes through the shroud of his hair as he escorted her up the stairs again.

"Thank you, Miss," he murmured shyly, a warm glow kindled in his core. But Eloise still trembled, even as they reached the top of the stair and he released her.

"Thank you, Friend, a hundred times," she breathed, squeezing his arm as they parted. "Oh!" she said, pausing, "Could you. . .please try to let me down gently from my angel flight in Scene Three? I have to land on the bad leg!" She grimaced, peering hopefully up at him.

"Of course, Miss," he bowed his head from the light.

"Eloise," she mouthed, whispering nearly inaudibly, and the lonely creature smiled as Eloise shook his arm emphatically. With a little, sighing laugh, she darted away and up the stairs to her dressing room and dormitory. He placed a palm over his chest, which seemed to burn within as he watched her disappear.

"Pardon," Charlotte muttered begrudgingly, without looking at him, giving him an enormously wide berth as she appeared in the hallway nearby and pressed herself tightly against the opposite wall to avoid him as she passed.

The lonely creature swallowed, lowering his head for a beat, and then went about his intermission chores.

 **CHAPTER TWO**

 **FRIEND**

Aside from Eloise making a point to greet and thank him daily for his supporting efforts, he had no other cause to interact with her for the next few days, until Saturday night came.

After the show, the lonely creature stood slowly winding a rope into a coil up in the loft. Contemplative, he looked out over the empty auditorium and sighed. Such life and vibrancy had filled it just under an hour before; now it lay empty and silent. He grinned with melancholy fondness as he cast his eyes down onto the stage, remembering Eloise standing there bringing gasps and laughter to the crowd. She herself was a bright light. He thought of her kind smile, and it made his chest hurt.

He froze, holding his breath, his eyes growing wider as his ears perked up at a soft, lilting sound. Someone was singing. Standing quite still, he tracked the sound to the stairwell leading down from the dressing rooms, followed it as it grew, coming closer down the backstage corridor, and gasped quietly, his brow furrowing as the person entered backstage left. Eloise. It had to be. The song was strange to him, as much of the world yet was in his reborn infancy within it. The sound trailed off as she crept closer to the stage, apparently listening, herself, to see if she was alone. Silently, the creature stepped back into shadow, waiting to see if she would come into sight. She did.

Satisfied that she was alone, Eloise resumed her pretty melody as she strolled slowly across the stage, running her fingers absently over the edges of the scenery, apparently lost in thought. The lonely creature, drawn out from the shadow, stepped silently forward on the catwalk to keep her in his sight, and as the soothing sound of her soft voice swept gently through him like a sweet, cool breeze, he felt a keen longing pierce his breast to know what it was she thought of. Her song was such a mournful one, and though he couldn't make out the words, he heard her heart, broken, speaking through that aching melody. His brow furrowed and his breath came quicker.

Then there was a noise out at the backstage door. Voices. Male voices. Male footsteps. Eloise, whose ears could not discern those sounds from her vantage point, continued singing, and more loudly, as she turned out toward the auditorium, her pretty voice echoing back from the empty seats and decorated walls. The lonely creature watched Eloise, wondered how she would interact with the newcomers, and was perturbed as she at last heard their voices, stiffened upright, cast her eyes this way and that, found no escape, and realized she would be found in the open. Why was an actress, by definition outgoing, so very shy? Why did she behave like hunted quarry? He watched her scurry toward stage left, where she might escape toward the dormitories, then halt as the voices came from that direction.

"Little songbird, are ye?" James' voice entered, laughing a little, and Eloise froze, quite still, casting her eyes down as her hands clasped together in front of her breast.

"What other talents does she hide, I wonder?" Simon's voice sounded.

"James, Simon," she murmured very quietly. "Goodnight," she added, and took a few rapid steps to pass them, then checked as Simon apparently blocked her exit. The lonely creature could not see either man yet, but his brow lowered and his eyes narrowed at the sound of Simon's voice.

"You can't go to bed yet," Simon's words echoed boldly. He was always loud. "We came back to fetch you, Elly, for the festivities. You've had a good week – done well to fill Maude's shoes."

"Well as anybody could, I suppose," James chimed in.

Eloise came back into view as she backed up again toward the front of the stage. Her eyes were cast down. "Thank you," she bobbed her head. "But I don't care much for going out," she told them.

"That's the thanks we get for finally inviting her out, is it?" said Simon to James as both men strode slowly forward into view. James shook his head.

"I don't mean to seem unsociable," Eloise grinned nervously. "I'm just very tired, after such a long week. I'm sure you can understand that."

"So tired you're roamin' around the stage, singin'?" James scoffed and turned to Simon in disbelief.

Something was ugly in the men's manner, and, up on the catwalk, the lonely creature gripped the rail with tense hands. Why did they put him so on edge? Maybe it was because Eloise looked so very ill at ease.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and chuckled nervously, breathily. "I was just on my way to bed and thought I'd come down to think for a moment."

"Can't think in bed?" Simon teased.

"I don't reckon that's what beds are best for, anyhow," laughed James, and Simon snickered.

"My bed is best for sleeping," said Eloise, fixing her eyes on each of them in turn, though her head was still somewhat lowered, "so I'm off to see to that. Excuse me." She made it no farther than three steps before Simon, who began to loudly sing, seized her hands and drew her into a dance. Hot indignation burned in the creature's breast as he watched. How brazenly Simon took her into his arms! How dead and blank it made her face as Simon spun her to and fro! James was laughing and clapping in time to the beat. Eloise forced a grin and said, "All right, all right, Simon, please!" Still, he swept her along with increasing force.

"You must cel-e-brate with us!" Simon sang rhythmically as he swung her around, and James laughed, seizing her arm and taking her swinging in the other direction.

"Haha," Eloise laughed stiffly as she was bounced about, "another time, boys, all right? I'm tired."

"Ohh!" groaned Simon, seizing her back from James and clutching her by the upper arms. "We came all the way back here from Gerald Street just to fetch you, you silly girl! Now you won't even dance with us?"

"I don't like it when a girl won't dance with me," James said darkly to Simon.

"Don't fancy that sort of behavior myself," observed Simon, and the creature's hands clenched tightly on the catwalk rail as he watched how still Simon grew, and how Eloise's eyes fixed on the floor boards.

"Come on, Simon," appealed Eloise. "Charlotte's out waiting at the pub, isn't she? Oughtn't you to get back to her?"

"Char-lotte's with Tho-mas," sneered James in an ugly sing-song.

"We've only you to play with," Simon simpered, tracing his hands down her arms.

"Give 'im a kiss, love," James encouraged, stepping closer to the pair. "He's so lonely - look at 'im!"

The creature's nostrils flared, and he felt the wood of the rail start to crush in his grasp. Eloise looked from James to Simon, and the creature saw the first open fear in her eyes. She spoke. "Please, boys, just let me go." Her pretty brow furrowed and she squirmed out of Simon's grasp. James caught her, and gave her a little shove back toward Simon.

"Come now, Elly," Simon purred, tracing his knuckles down her cheek. "You know how important I am in this company. Do you really want to find yourself on the wrong side of me? Maude knew her place. So does Charlotte. Now learn yours."

"Please, Simon, don't," Eloise's frightened voice came in a hiss. He held her as she struggled against his grip.

"Nobody wants to hurt you, kitten," Simon simpered, pulling her close even as she tried to lean away. "I'm sure you like us; there's no need to play coy. Be a good girl."

"Be a good girl," James echoed as he stepped behind her, adding his hands to her confinement.

"No! No!" Eloise cried as tears came to her eyes and she sagged in their combined grip.

"LEEEEEAAAVE HER ALOOOOOOONE!" the creature's thundering voice boomed from the upper tier of the stage, utterly filling the space of all the auditorium. Three terrified faces sought and found him at once. The wood of the rail crunched as it broke in the grip of his furious hands, and he watched with satisfaction as all three mortals below on the stage saw splinters rain down, and understanding dawned upon them.

"Jesus!" cried James, staggering back from Eloise.

"You're a fucking abomination!" Simon hissed hatefully, though he too had released Eloise.

Eloise herself only clutched her hands together at her breast, sobbed, and ran swiftly away. Even as the creature's yellow eyes remained fixed on Simon's loathsome, irate sneer, he tracked the sound of Eloise's feet fleeing up the dormitory steps and the slam and lock of her door.

"Let's go, mate," the wide-eyed James appealed to Simon as both men stared up at the creature.

Simon stood fast, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, glaring up. "You're only here by the grace of the old man, and Vincent won't own this enterprise forever, you goddamned ugly sod! I can't wait to. . ."

The creature stepped back into shadow, but as he did, his hands released the catwalk rail, and what was left of the wood he'd been gripping showered to the stage, frightening Simon, whose eyes grew wide and whose voice trailed off. With a final glare, Simon pushed James, and the men left. The creature listened for the sound of the backstage door, which slammed behind them as they exited onto the street. Then he sank to the catwalk and sat breathing heavily for a long moment.

A few hours later, after the creature had heard all the residential company come home, and they slept in alcoholic stupor in their dormitory beds, and all the theater lay silent, the creature finally grew still. He sat reading in his corner of the basement by the light of his lamp, his feet propped up on a barrel and the book resting over his knees. Rodents scuttled about among the stored items all around the place, their little feet pattering and their little teeth scratching on wood. Outside, up on the street, a cat yowled and hissed, then fell silent. Rain spattered onto the pavement, a light, barely audible sound, and tapped the glass of his tiny window with soft fingers of sound. All such noises were the symphony of his solitary nights. But one noise caught his ear that was different. Raising his head and tilting an ear up toward the stage above, he strained, listening.

Soft, sneaking steps were stealing down the backstage corridor. Someone was out of bed. Why?

Simon. Come to seek his petty vengeance.

The creature closed his book, rising, and glared up at the ceiling of his wooden cave, following the sound. Rageful glee filled his breast. He pictured Simon coming down the stairs into the creature's domain and knew that if he did, it would be the _last_ thing he ever did. The creature cursed him. If he killed Simon, he would have to leave. He liked it here. He liked Vincent. He liked _her._ He could not kill Simon.

But the footsteps, made with great care to be stealthy, passed his stair and continued down the corridor, tracking into the stage right wing, and then stopped. The creature tilted his head and listened, and listened, and waited, and waited.

Nothing.

He wasn't going to wait to be ambushed. If Simon wanted a fight, he was going to get one. . .and be lucky if he survived it. Fortifying himself with restrained hatred, the creature's face grew hard, and he stalked up the stair, and down the corridor, and paused outside the stage right door, listening.

A wave of feeling poured over his body from head to toe when the next sound came, for it was a plaintive little sob, a woman's cry, and it came from up on the catwalk where he had earlier stood. With great caution, the lonely creature peered wide-eyed around the corner into the stage. The dimmest lamp light illuminated the catwalk, its weak beam barely touching the stage below. But which of the residential women was it, up there shedding lonely tears? He could hazard a guess, but steeled himself for any possibility.

With very great caution and stealth, the creature made his way to the ladder and climbed to the loft, where he slunk along until he reached the opening of the catwalk. Peering cautiously around the bend, he saw long, gently-waved chestnut hair pouring down the white nightgown-clad back of Eloise. She held one hand over her face, while the delicate fingers of the other clung to the broken edge of the rail where he had smashed it in his rage. She sniffed and wiped her eyes.

"F-friend?" she sniffed in a whisper, turning sharply toward him. He made to duck behind his cover again, then gave it up. " _Please don't hurt me_ ," she whispered slowly, and slowly shook her head. The lonely creature was amazed that that simple plea could be imbued with such utter, resigned desolation.

"I wouldn't!" he found himself answering vehemently at once. He crawled into the open and paused, crouching, facing her. "Are you all right?" he asked sadly, knowing the answer.

"No," she shook her head, her eyes still fixed on his. She watched him for a moment. He sat quite still, his brow furrowed in anguish. She hesitated, then spoke, her voice a hushed whisper. "I couldn't sleep anymore, once Charlotte was home, knowing someone else had a key to my room. She could let them in, for all I know. I didn't know where to go. I thought to hide here, but you've. . .found me." She raised a hand, then dropped it to her lap. "I'm sorry I disturbed you," she added dejectedly.

"You didn't," he told her. " _I'm_ sorry. . ."

"I half hoped you would," she admitted, wiping fresh tears from beneath her eye. "Find me," she finished.

The creature, surprised into silence, waited. Watched. Eloise blinked at him and used her sleeve to dab at her nose.

He said, "You could have found _me_ , if you. . .needed a friend."

"I didn't want to bother you," she shook her head at once, looking down, murmuring, "You work so hard. . ."

"You're not a bother," he scoffed pityingly. "You know where you may find me," he grinned, his brow furrowed sympathetically.

"In your shadow lair below," Eloise half-grinned. Teasing.

"If you're not afraid," the creature added seriously.

"You mean your face," Eloise raised a hand toward him, then shook her head. The creature blinked in surprise. "I wish you wouldn't hide yourself from my eyes. I'm not afraid of your pale skin. Or your scars." The creature could hardly hold her gaze, so direct and sincere was it. His heart thudded in his broad chest. "I don't find you ugly at all." The creature frowned, searching her face, but found her utterly sincere. His lips parted in amazement. His breath caught in his throat. "But _all_ men. . .frighten me," she breathed, and he watched a large tear slide down her smooth cheek as she looked down at the stage.

"I wouldn't harm you," he told her again.

"Wouldn't you." Eloise blinked sadly at him, then sniffed as the creature shook his head. She turned away again. "I wish I had that pledge from all the men in this company. I came here because I thought. . ." her voice broke, "I thought it would be safer." A small sob wracked her, and the creature stirred, wanting to go to her, to comfort her.

"They'll not harm you while I'm near," he swore ardently in a fierce whisper.

This only generated another sob from Eloise, who folded her knees into her chest, and wrapped her arms around them, tucking in her head and looking very small. "If only I were a great, strong _man_ , I wouldn't be always so afraid!" sobbed Eloise into her knees. "What is it like?" she asked, raising her head after a beat.

"What?" The creature frowned.

"What is it like to be so strong?" Eloise reached out a delicate hand and touched the splintered rail again. The creature struggled, lost as to what to say or do. "What is it like to be able to walk down a street, or even through your place of _work_ ," her voice broke again with a sob, "and not worry that a man might catch you alone?"

The creature's heart, already so full of desolation, broke for her. What a cruel, terrible world, in which such a bright and gentle creature as she must suffer so!

Eloise went on miserably, "To be allowed to sleep, and to sleep soundly at night, unafraid of who might come to seek you in your bed. . ." She lowered her face into her knees again, and her body shook as she wept quietly.

The lonely creature crept toward her, drawn to her, yearning to comfort her. " _No one_ will harm you while I'm near," he whispered fiercely.

"Why do you care to make me such a promise?" Eloise whispered, raising her head and wiping her face, appearing relatively unalarmed as he closed the distance between them.

"You are kind to me," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Is such simple kindness worth so much to you?" Eloise asked pityingly.

"Yes," he smiled ruefully. "Until you, only Vincent had. . .ever shown me kindness," he admitted timidly.

"Oh, my Friend," Eloise sighed, her brow furrowed, "two of a kind are we!" And then she took to weeping again – slow, aching sobs that left the creature's insides twisting in anguish.

"How can I be of comfort?" he whispered. Eloise, her face pressed into her knees again, only shrugged and shook her head slightly. The creature's hands reached for her, but he pulled back, unsure, helpless. "I would be of comfort if I could. . .I would. . .hold you. . ." he whispered, barely audible.

Eloise stirred and stood, gathering her lantern as she wiped her face on her sleeve. "I'm sorry I disturbed you, Friend," she said, glancing nervously at him as he also stood. "I should. . .I will try to sleep in my room again." She watched worriedly, but the creature stepped backwards away from her toward the end of the catwalk at once, opening her path to the ladder. He said nothing as she climbed down, remaining at the top, himself.

"Eloise," he breathed, and she paused, looking up at him. "You need only call out, if anything should happen. . .I will hear you." His yellow eyes were fixed earnestly on hers. "And I will come."

She grinned sadly, and a tear glistened on her cheek. "Thank you, Friend. Goodnight."

 **CHAPTER THREE**

 **OPENING**

Things returned to normal among the company for the following some days - as though nothing out of the ordinary had transpired that night - though Eloise was a bit more scarce. The lonely creature could not find means to interact with her beyond their normal work relations and her established pattern of geniality. He wondered how she fared – if she was feeling any better; if she was still frightened. She gave no strong outward indication that he could discern, except that she was even more quiet than usual. He thought about it often, his mind full of questions he feared may never have answers, and he was haunted by the vision of her weeping on the catwalk, so bereft of solace. He knew such brokenness, and he writhed in internal agony to think of her suffering so. Did it feel the same to her as it did to him? Was it a constant ache in the core of her? Did it burn and flare with an unkind look or word from another? Could it be soothed and quelled by a simple gesture of caring, as his could? He listened always for her voice in the night, her footstep on the stair, but heard neither. And he was ever watchful over her, keeping a close eye on James and Simon as much as ever he could, whenever they were near her. Both seemed to ignore her utterly beyond their necessary theatrical interactions. As for himself, neither acknowledged him, either, if they could help it, and for the time being, he kept his broiling hatred in check, though he longed to tear off their arms. . .and knew how easy it would be for him to do it.

And so days passed, and performances were held by night, while during the day all were busy preparing for the next production. Opening night of the new production arrived, along with an idea. As the house crew readied the lobby and auditorium for opening, the creature made his timid way up to one of the girls selling oranges. Keeping his head low, he avoided meeting their eyes, ignored their stares and whispers and cruel snickering, and procured a large, bright fruit. As he swept away, he stared down at it, cupped in his hands. Its color burned like flame against the white of his deathly skin, and its supple roundness promised exquisite flavor.

He had seen Eloise eat an orange once, the day she had first arrived at the theater. Vincent had given it to her, and the lonely creature had hidden himself behind a set piece as he watched the beautiful young woman pore over her script on the side of the stage, her legs folded elegantly beneath her. He had clutched the beam of the scenery behind which he stood with tense fingers, watching in what became a kind of pain as her gentle fingers worked apart the bright peel and each juicy piece disappeared between her soft lips. With the first slice and the last, she had closed her eyes in pleasure, savoring the sweet fruit.

"Vincent," the creature called softly as he came through the backstage corridor, and the old man turned around at the foot of the stair, where he was about to climb.

"Yes, my dear Caliban!" Vincent smiled warmly. So did the creature. "Is all in order for tonight's opening, good fellow?"

"Yes, Vincent, I've fixed the box for Act One, Scene Two, and replaced the pail for the milking scene, as you asked. But. . ."  
"My good man!" interrupted Vincent jovially. "What _would_ we do without you! Wonderfully handy you are, wonderfully handy – the finest stage rat a theater could possibly find!"

"Thank you, Vincent," the creature breathed happily. "Might I ask a favor?" He cast his eyes over Vincent's shoulder up the stairs. The cast and crew members were all out having supper or not yet arrived. Aside from Eloise, of course, who was up in her dressing room or dormitory, where the creature was not supposed to go.

"Of course, of course!" agreed Vincent immediately. "How may I serve you?"

"Might you ask if I could see Miss Hargrave, please?" asked the creature timidly.

"I shall send her down at once, my good man!" Vincent nodded, turning and starting up the stair. "I do know her flight harness was giving you trouble yesterday afternoon," he muttered as he climbed. The creature did not bother to tell him the harness was fine. He merely watched Vincent climb, then waited nervously at the foot of the stair, palming the orange with fidgeting hands. When he heard a rustling of skirts approach the top of the stair, he hid the orange behind his back and stared up in anticipation.

"Friend!" Eloise's voice lilted as she clutched up the hem of her dressing gown and pattered quickly down the stairs. "Vincent said there's something wrong with the flight harness?"

"Ah, no," the creature shook his head. Eloise paused on the lowest step, her eyes even with his. He was grateful there was no lamp nearby. "Everything is fine, with the show." He dropped his gaze for a beat, then met her eyes shyly as he said with significance, "I wanted to see that you were all right."

"Oh!" sighed Eloise, raising a hand to her breast as she tilted her head with a grin, moved. "Yes, I'm. . .I'm all right, thank you, Friend. It's kind of you to ask!"

The creature dropped his gaze with a shy grin.

Eloise asked, "Are you well?"

"Yes," the creature grinned in surprise. "Yes." He shuffled his foot for a second, then spoke. "I've. . .made sure all your props are placed. And you'll want to mind that step down off the barn set in the milkmaid scene – I've had to raise it to allow for Vincent's cloak to be pulled through, Charlotte folds it so thick."

"Yes, it was stuck, nearly every rehearsal. Thank you for telling me!" Eloise smiled. "And for placing my props."

"You're welcome, M- Eloise," he corrected timidly. There was a pause. Eloise filled it.

"And you! You've managed that scene change in Act Two so much faster the past two times we ran it. What a sprint you have to make between those ropes!" laughed Eloise lightly. "Well done!"

"Ah, thank you," murmured the creature bashfully, lowering his head. "I rigged them to different blocks, so they're heavier to pull now, but easier to access. It. . .saves Vincent bellowing at me," he chuckled, then added more soberly, "and Simon cursing me."

"Yes," grimaced Eloise, with a raise of her eyebrows that acknowledged their mutual distaste for the latter.

"You've. . .done your makeup already," observed the creature gently, casting his eyes over her painted face.

"Oh, yes," sighed Eloise, waving her fingers at her face. "I wanted to be sure Vincent was all right with the look of it. He only asked me yesterday to change it, so I wanted to be sure."

"Yes," the creature breathed. "You. . .look beautiful." He dropped his eyes at once, swallowing.

"Thank you, Friend," murmured Eloise softly with a little sigh, and he could hear the smile in the shape of her words. She added, "Vincent said it would certainly do."

"I don't mean to keep you," the creature said then, raising his eyes bravely to her face. "I wanted to wish you a very good opening night." Eloise smiled warmly. Encouraged, he said what else he desired to say, his thoughts earnest though his voice was timid: "And I hope you won't be nervous this time. The crowd loves you, and they've every reason to do so."

Eloise's brow furrowed, and she reached out a hand, placing it affectionately on his shoulder. The warmth of her hand seemed to spread from that point of contact all the way through his being, straight to his core, where it burned like a bright light. "Thank you, Friend. You're so kind!" They smiled at each other. "And I promise to try not to fall down tonight. Only stage blood tonight, yes?"

"Yes, I hope," laughed the creature as Eloise squeezed his shoulder, chuckling at their shared memory of her mishap.

"Good show to you, tonight, too, Friend!" smiled Eloise, and with a final squeeze of his shoulder, she released him and reached for her skirts. Remembering just in time, he brought his hands forward and held up the orange to her, grinning sheepishly. "Oh!" gasped Eloise in surprise, her eyes growing wide with her smile. "Is this for me?" He nodded at her searching gaze, and she took the orange with a gasp of delight. " _Thank_ you, Friend! How sweet you are!" She beamed at him, clutching the orange to her breast, moved. He froze in utter shock when she placed her free hand over his left cheek, kissing his right. Her hand lingered on his face, impossibly warm and soft, as she smiled sweetly at him. "Good show tonight," she whispered, caressed his skin, then turned and darted up the stairs with a grin back over her shoulder.

He stood staring in shock for a moment, until the cast and crew trooped through the backstage door, and then he scuttled out of their way, wide-eyed with disbelief, ignoring their typical leering as they passed him and headed up the stairs as well.

The creature hardly made it safely out of sight down the stair to the basement before tears overcame him. He stood, gasping quietly with joy, his hand clutched to his breast. He paced to and fro in the basement for some time, just feeling, just reveling in the newly discovered fact that he was capable of experiencing something other than pain, other than sorrow, other than hollow, aching loneliness! That such a lovely thing was possible! Eloise - beautiful, kind Eloise - did not fear him! She did not look upon him with disgust! She did not cower from him, recoil from him! She had _kissed_ his pale, deathly flesh, and _smiled!_

He paced in jubilant reflection until it was time to run his final inspections (a feat he accomplished in record time, so light was his foot at this moment!) and take his first place for the performance. As he stood in his place in the basement, waiting at the dial for the stage lights, he heard the hushed voices of two of his least favorite actors in the backstage corridor above.

"Oy! Come 'ere, c'mere! Did you see the ghoul just now?" James' voice asked, its tone tinged with cruel laughter. Did they not think he could hear them? Surely, he realized darkly, they didn't care if he did.

"What?" Charlotte's voice replied.

"Our ugly ol' dungeon-dweller's been to see the little ingenue an' come away a happier man, I'd reckon."

"How so?" Charlotte simpered, sinking her teeth into the gossip.

"Did you see the print she left on 'is cheek?" James' voice sounded in a hiss. The creature, horrified, touched his fingertips to the place where Eloise had kissed him.

"What's that, now?" Charlotte laughed.

"Gone an' kissed 'im, she has!" James cried quietly, incredulous.

"She never!" gasped Charlotte. "Why ever would she?" she laughed derisively.

"Search me!"

"She didn't! I'm sure nobody would!" The lonely creature could hear the shudder in Charlotte's voice. "Ugh, he makes my skin crawl!" The creature's heart sank, and his shoulders sagged.

"Call me a liar, would ye? Didn' you notice when we passed him by the stair? Go'n look at 'im when 'e resurfaces, the bloody vermin - you'll see – plain as day, bright red lips she laid on his cheek, the confounding little tart!"

"No!" groaned Charlotte in evil delight. Then, "Shh, she's coming," Charlotte hushed James, and the two conspirators giggled darkly. Aloud, Charlotte said, "Mind your lip rouge, Miss Hargrave. It rubs off, you know."

"What?" Eloise's flute-like voice indicated befuddlement.

James snickered. "Mind where you _put_ it, she means. Or we'll all know where you've been."

"What are you talking about?" Eloise's soft voice gained an edge of irritation.

"Gaw, but she's thick, isn't she?" cackled Charlotte.

"She'd have to be, wouldn't she, plantin' 'er lips on the likes of 'im, the bloody ghoul."  
"I beg your pardon?" Eloise was angry.

"Now, now," Charlotte simpered. "If she fancies a great filthy raggedy scarecrow who sleeps with the rats, then who are we to tell her her business?"

"Do you know, Charlotte," Eloise spoke harshly, "you're absolutely right. It _is_ my business, but since we're on the subject, that man is actually a lovely person, and you would discover that for yourselves, if you weren't so busy being small-minded and hateful!" The creature's chest burned with conflicting passions.

"Ooh, Miss High-and-Mighty, are we? I knew you thought you were better than the rest of us!" hissed Charlotte triumphantly.

"I really hadn't thought so, but if being kind is something that sets me above you, then so be it," huffed Eloise. The creature's heart swelled with pride and warmth.

"Did you leave your rouge anywhere _else_ on 'im, I wonder?" James drawled significantly. The creature, though fresh again to the world, knew enough to understand, and his lip curled in disgust and contempt, even as his brow furrowed in shame and horror. The rage took another moment to rise and overcome all.

There was a tense pause during which Charlotte and James snickered, then Eloise's voice spoke calmly. "I pity you both. I really do," she sighed.

"Aww, so sweet!" simpered Charlotte sarcastically, clicking her tongue.

"Saint Eloise, Patron Saint of the Hideous and Beastly," James intoned in mock solemnity.

"The Ghoulish and Unloveable," joined Charlotte.

There was a sigh, undoubtedly Eloise's, then footsteps, also undoubtedly Eloise's, receded briskly down the corridor. "Good show tonight," Eloise's voice wished them flatly as she went away.

"Ugh, let 'er look down 'er nose at us, the little bitch," Charlotte sneered quietly to James.

"She'll get what she deserves. You wait," predicted James. "I hope the fucking monster ravages her and leaves her bleedin' in a dark corner of 'is basement, the little cunt." He laughed bitterly as he spoke all this.

"Ooh," uttered Charlotte in an audible shudder that turned to a giggle as she observed, "What a dark and delightful imagination you have, James!"

The creature's breathing was ragged with tumultuous passions. But Vincent's voice boomed above, and the show was on. The creature turned the dial, and upstairs, the audience gasped as the stage came alive with light.

He had little time to think of much beyond his duties as the show went on, but as things grew quiet after the audience left, and it was only he and a few silent others tidying up and closing down, every word of what he'd overheard haunted him, the terrible and the beautiful both.

And so it was as quiet fell over the theater in the predicted absence of the reveling cast and crew that the lonely night found the creature seated by his little lamp with a book of verse in his hands, though he only stared at the words, unable to concentrate, the letters swimming hazily before his distracted eyes. So deep in thought was he, that he heard her voice before he heard her steps, and when it sounded, flute-like and gentle, from the stair, he closed his eyes with a great sigh of feeling.

"Friend? Are you down here?"

"Yes," he breathed eagerly, rising and peering out from behind the great stack of crates that formed the barrier between the rest of the basement and his little space.

"There you are!" Eloise grinned, stepping down onto the floor. Wearing her day dress, she held a lamp that illuminated her face. "Well done tonight!" she congratulated him as she stood at the bottom of the stairs.

"And you, Mi- Eloise," he dipped his head in acknowledgement and bashfulness at the needed correction again.

"MEloise, is it?" she teased him lightly.

He chuckled. "Eloise, I'm sorry. What can I do for you?" He stood silhouetted against the light of his own lamp and distant from hers, then remembered that she had kissed the face he hid in shadows. He strode cautiously forward into her light as she answered.

"If you're at liberty, I thought to pay you a visit," she grinned. The creature nodded, feeling his chest burn with gladness, and it blazed hotter when she raised her other hand into the light, continuing, "A perfectly lovely gentleman brought me this kind gift earlier tonight on the stairs, and I thought we might share it." The orange he had given her glowed in the light of her lamp.

The creature beamed jubilantly, and breathlessly invited her, "Please. . .come and sit!" He gestured with his arm, leading her to the circle of light his lamp cast, where he presented her with the wooden stool, for himself pulling up a little barrel beside it. Eloise extinguished her own lamp, setting it upon the floor, and sat, followed by the creature, who folded his hands in his lap eagerly.

"You do like sweets, yes?" Eloise checked, holding up the orange. The creature nodded, grinning. "I haven't met many who don't," she observed with a one-shouldered shrug as she laid out a handkerchief across her lap and began to peel the orange over it. The creature watched her fingers work, with a strange sort of relaxed, pleasant tingle. "I thought Vincent was going to fall on his face in the wolf scene tonight," Eloise made conversation, her eyes wide and her brows raised. "Nearly went over that hedge piece as James galloped past too close to the trees!"

"Yes, I saw that!" the creature remembered.

"Thank god he didn't go over," breathed Eloise. "And covered it like a true professional – did you see him?"

"Ah, no," the creature admitted, for though he had a good view from his post in the loft at that moment, his thoughts had been consumed by Eloise herself, upon whose head he had been looking down just then in deep reflection.

"He feigned a parry downstage and stepped over it with surprising agility for. . .someone like him," she finished with a good-natured, humorous grimace.

"Yes," the creature chuckled. He wished Vincent wouldn't drink so much. But he was beginning to understand that every man bore his demons in his own way.

"He's a lovely man, isn't he – Vincent?" Eloise sighed contemplatively, a kind, sad grin tracing her lips as she continued to peel the fruit.

"Yes," agreed the creature devotedly. Eloise met his eyes, and he thought there was something knowing in her gaze. "If. . .only _all_ could be so kind. . ." he breathed with feeling.

Eloise's brow furrowed as she held his gaze, tilting her head. "What a world this would be then, wouldn't it?" she agreed. She had finished peeling the orange, and handed him the first slice with a sad little grin.

"Thank you," he whispered, holding her eyes with effort as he reached to take the fruit. When her hand was free, Eloise touched her fingertips to his knee, applied a comforting pressure, and then withdrew her hand to pry loose a slice of orange for herself.

They ate in affectionate silence, and while Eloise's eyes roamed calmly here or there about the shadowed basement, or met his own with a kind grin, he watched her, caught somewhere between utter satisfaction at the simple joy and peace of this moment, and an overwhelming, consuming desire to have more of her, _all_ of her. A thousand wants roared fiercely through him, and yet a blessedly calm part of him allowed him to sit like a civilized human, not like the blood-soaked ghoul he was, and remain still and docile before her.

Then the fears came. Was she really sincere – was it possible for someone like her to see a beast like him so kindly? Would she suddenly realize the madness of her actions and recoil from him at last? What if she was sincere, but _he_ brought her harm? What if the evil inside him took over? He cast his eyes down at the next orange slice she handed to him, watching his own fingers as he took it gently from her. Those fingers, those traitorous hands, had torn flesh, expelling blood without mercy. What _was_ he? What horrible abomination was he? How did he dare to sit quietly and play the part of a man? How did he dare, with the things he had done, to sit here now and face this gentle woman, who even now looked upon him with a tender eye? What if, one day, madness overtook him, and he hurt her, killed her, as James had said he might? Could it be possible? What if he hurt someone else, and she learned of it, or of his past sins? What if she learned what he really was?

"Friend," breathed Eloise in concern, lowering her orange slice to her lap. The creature snapped out of his reverie and blinked at her. "You look very troubled! What dark thoughts intrude?"

The creature pressed his lips together in a pensive frown, and sighed. Eloise waited patiently, her pretty brow furrowed in concern. He drew in a breath, hesitated, gathering all his courage, then timidly asked, "Do you think the things we have done. . .if they are evil. . .mean that. . . _we_. . .are evil?"

Eloise cast her eyes down at her hands, which she smoothed over one another slowly, folding her delicate fingers together with a low sigh before she looked up and calmly answered, "I believe each new day, each moment even, is a chance to be something better than what we were before." She went on after a beat. "And I think it's not for us to judge what is and isn't to be forgiven of ourselves. That's god's work." There was another pause during which they gazed at each other, then she stated, "I don't think I've ever known a person who didn't have some sort of deed in their past they might call evil. But that doesn't mean we _are_ evil. No one is beyond redemption." She shook her head adamantly. "I believe that." She dropped her eyes and her voice as she added, "I _have_ to believe that. . ." There was a long pause during which the creature's many questions grew deafening in his mind. Then Eloise looked him fiercely in the eye and declared, very softly, but very earnestly, "Whatever you have done in the past, you can choose to act differently today, tomorrow, forever, from now on."

The creature could not hold her gaze and lowered his head, his breath thick in his throat. "What if the wrong choice is made - another mistake is made - more evil is done?"

Eloise sniffed a sympathetic little laugh out her nose and pressed his knee again as she replied, "Friend, we are all human – that's what we do."

Human.

How little she knew.

She continued, in total, unabashed, beautiful earnest, "But god loves _all_ of us, no matter who we are or what we've done."

But the poor, lonely creature could only scoff gently, shaking his mournful, scarred head. "What if I don't believe in god?"

"Then for now, I'll believe in him _for_ you," Eloise whispered, pressing harder on his knee. He looked up to find her grinning sweetly, and all her kindness – her company, her words, her tender touch, the warm and innocent affection in that look - filled his eyes with the glistening of tears. Timidly, he reached his hand toward hers, and she took it at once, squeezing his fingers in hers. Unafraid. Unashamed.

In time, they each finished their last pieces of orange, and with a stifled yawn that made them both chuckle quietly, Eloise rose. Looking down at his upturned face, she hesitated for a second, then stroked her knuckles down his scarred cheek. "You've still got my rouge on you," she sighed, grinning. The creature chuckled again bashfully, glancing down as all the tempestuous feelings this night had brought flashed through him at her touch. Smoothing back the creature's dark hair, Eloise leaned down and pressed her lips to his forehead. The warmth and softness of her mouth, her breath, were nearly unbearable. "Goodnight, Friend," she whispered as she grinned down at him, her knuckles poised under his chin.

"Goodnight. . .Eloise," he breathed in anguished gladness.

And when she had gone, he wept, and wept.

 **CHAPTER FOUR**

 **OUTING**

At the end of the run of this show, after the final performance, when the other actors were gone and only a few crew members remained, Vincent came down to the stage as the creature was finishing his rounds.

"Caliban! Go and spiff yourself up, my good man – I'm taking you to dinner!" Vincent's voice preceded him as he entered.

The creature peered down from the loft, where he was tying off some ropes. "You don't wish me to strike the set?"

"Tomorrow, dear Caliban!" Vincent waved a dismissive hand, then went on jovially. "Tonight, we celebrate! Come, come!" he urged the creature, who scrambled, smiling, to climb down the ladder. "Oh, and you don't mind," he paused to take the creature by the shoulders, leaning close and lowering his voice, "if I've asked Miss Hargrave to join us, do you?" Vincent winked, and the creature beamed even as he grew nervous. "I thought not. Then go – there's not a moment to waste, dear boy!" And he spun the creature and pushed him toward the backstage area.

Soon, with his face and hands scrubbed clean and his hair smoothed down to the best of his meager ability, the creature walked beside Eloise and Vincent, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets and his head ducked low into the collar of his enormous black coat. He was practiced at avoiding attention on his own, but it was a difficult matter with Vincent, whose voice was loud and jolly, and with Eloise, whose shapely beauty, it seemed, could not be ignored by passersby. If anyone noticed the trio long enough to size up all three of them, the creature dreaded their eyes falling upon him, for inevitably a quizzical or disgusted expression followed. For what was this merry older man, and this beautiful young woman, doing with that bedraggled, freakish thing? And yet Eloise walked, one arm through the creature's, the other through Vincent's, accepting people's gaze bravely, glancing often up at the creature to give him a reassuring grin or a squeeze on his arm.

She was a remarkable thing.

When they arrived at the pub he and Vincent sometimes visited, and came to a booth, Eloise glanced at the creature, and knowingly allowed him to slide in toward the wall before her, placing herself between him and the rest of the room. Vincent sat across from them, more or less oblivious. And a merry event commenced.

The food, as usual, was an incredible treat, as the creature, usually spending any meager money he might have on books, dedicated very little resources to his repast. The conversation, mostly provided by the loquacious Vincent, was entertaining and jovial, full of talk of the show they had just closed, and his reminiscences on former runs, and the like. And of course, the _company_ was hardly within the realm of belief for the poor, lonely creature, who at one time could not have imagined he would ever have _one_ friend to show him such care and kindness, let alone _two._ But here they sat, the two people in all the swirling universe most precious to him. And with them, and a glowing heart, dinner passed, and drinks were had – almost entirely by Vincent – and the conversation continued.

The creature relished the opportunity to watch and listen to these two dear people, and took great efforts not to stare exclusively at Eloise, whose nearness beside him on the bench thrilled, terrified, comforted, and utterly enthralled him. So gently did her eye fall upon him when she turned his way! So comfortable did she seem to be, sat there beside him, in plain view of all the world, should they happen to look! This all set the creature's head spinning to distraction.

Until the creature noticed Eloise stiffen, staring at the table, and saw her raise a hand casually to shield her face. His eyes peered past her and landed on a man whose gaze had zeroed in on their table. The man, nondescript, common, was frowning as if trying to puzzle something out, then a slow grin formed on his mouth. He prodded his friend next to him, pointing, but the friend ignored him, conversing with another. The creature sensed trouble. The man crossed the room, tankard in his hand, his gaze fixed on Eloise, who closed her eyes and sighed as he neared.

"Ain't you that little pussy cat from the French club?" he asked, beaming idiotically.

"You're mistaken, sir," she denied, lowering her hand but keeping her head down, without meeting his eye. Vincent, setting down his drink, blinked and watched. The creature saw Vincent's face go blank and wondered what that meant.

"No, no," the man insisted, narrowing his eyes and leaning toward Eloise. "Redge," he called over his shoulder, waving his friend over. "Redge, ain't this the girl from the Chat Noir?"

"Blimey! 'Ello, da'lin'!" The newcomer reached for Eloise's hand, but she withdrew both hands under the table, turning her face away.

"Now, gentlemen," the inebriated Vincent stood, raising his hands, with an affable expression on his face, "please pardon us. You have my young friend confused with someone else, I'm afraid!"

"Naw," the first man shook his head, fixing his eyes on Eloise again. "This is 'er, plain as day – I'd never forget that pretty face!"

"Nor the rest of 'er, I reckon!" added the second man with an ugly laugh.

"Go on, show us ya bits, love!" said the first man, leaning down and leering at Eloise, even as Vincent murmured impotent, polite protests.

"You should see the set on _'er!_ Gaw!" mused the second man, shaking his head joyfully.

The creature, heretofore unnoticed by the men, placed both big, white palms on the table and leaned slowly forward into the light, his skin glowing eerie and luminous against his stark black hair, scars standing out in sharp contrasting shadow, wide yellow eyes ablaze beneath a livid brow, black lips fixed in a tight, furious line. Both visitors were taken visibly aback, their jaws going slack in surprise. One clutched the other by the arm.

"Good god, what the 'ell is that?" the man muttered.

"Bloody 'ell," murmured the other.

"Now, sirs," spoke Vincent, regaining some footing, "if you'll pardon us, we're only trying to enjoy a quiet dinner and some drinks."

"Yeah," scoffed the first man cruelly, gaining his composure as the creature sat unmoving, no increasing threat. The man cast his eyes back to Eloise, glancing at the creature uneasily every other word as he said, "Come on, Miss, we'd be much better company than this old man and whatever _'e_ is, eh?"

"No, thank you, these are my friends," said Eloise firmly, emboldened at last, finally looking each of the two men in the eye.

The second man sneered to the first, his eyes fixed on the creature's in contempt, "Guess this one'll open 'er legs to _anything_ , for the right price!"

The table scraped and the dishes and glasses rattled as the creature stood, stretching himself to his full height and drawing back his shoulders and his upper lip, big white fists curled tightly at his sides.

"All right, all right," scoffed the first man, taking a step back and pulling the second man's sleeve. "Come on, Redge. Good to see you again, Miss," he leered nastily at Eloise, who only turned her head away, her jaw clenched tightly.

"I'm sorry," she breathed miserably, staring at the table as Vincent and the creature retook their seats, righting the table and restoring order.

"Nonsense, darling," Vincent cooed, shaking his head and closing his eyes with a grin. "Let us forget it all and resume our evening, shall we?" And he launched immediately into an amusing anecdote about a pub brawl he had once seen, which fell on deaf ears as the creature and Eloise sat connected in a traumatized haze.

Eloise was staring determinedly at the table. The creature, bringing his breathing back down to a normal rate, saw Eloise's knee bounce rapidly as she tapped her foot in agitation. She drew her hands out from her lap to look at them, and she and the creature observed that they trembled. The creature felt his chest constrict tightly, and saw Eloise's vacant eyes glisten with the start of tears. Bravely, he slid his ghostly hand toward her on the bench, his fingers curled loosely, inviting, and fixed his eyes on Eloise's face, speaking without words. She glanced down at his hand and, with a grateful, furrowed brow, placed her trembling fingers slowly over his.

Answered questions now generated new ones. But at this moment, there was only her pain, which became his. He gripped her hand tightly, and fiercely she squeezed in return, needing him. He watched her raise her face to Vincent and mask it with the pretense of interest and listening, but she was only truly present in the tremulous squeeze of her fingers over the creature's. He ached with the longing to take her fully into his arms and clutch her body against his. She accepted his comfort at this moment. Perhaps she would again.

This prolonged human contact filled his entire awareness for the remaining duration of their outing. Dinner was done, and if Eloise ever ventured a timid hand toward her drinking glass, it was with her other, keeping her grip on the creature's most determinedly. Such a strange and wondrous sensation! He could feel her pulse in her fingers and thought of her heart beating in her breast, sending blood outward in coursing waves, like the waves of feeling that coursed through him, perhaps an extension of that very rhythm; perhaps some part of her beat through her veins, met his fingers, and pulsed its way onward into his own body, warming it. For he felt an unprecedented warmth, and while anguish from so many causes mingled with this pleasant sensation, the crowning aspect of that experience was a quiet, pulsing satisfaction at sharing that connection with her, the spiritual and emotional facilitated by the physical.

And he started to wonder if maybe god was real.

 **CHAPTER FIVE**

 **H A N D**

"I've found you at last!"

The voice was unmistakeable, and the creature felt it sweep through him, warm like the sun upon his face. He smiled, turning to greet her as he hefted the last barrel into place among the others in the storage nook offstage right. "Eloise," he breathed.

"New blood shipment?" she grinned, patting the barrels as she drew even with him. A costumer, hands full of accoutrements, passed them in the corridor and cast them a disapproving glance. Both Eloise and the creature ignored her.

"Yes," the creature chuckled. "Since next week we start the Mariner's Inn Massacre _and_ a Ripper show, Vincent thought we ought to stock up early in case the shipments are affected by the upcoming holiday."

"Wise," Eloise nodded, grimacing in approval. Then she turned to him, grinning. "How are you, Friend? I've not had a chance to visit you, with the new scripts and all."

"I'm well, thank you, and congratulations on your role as the Inspector's wife," the creature smiled.

"Thank you!" Eloise bobbed her head, pleased, then leaned close, dropping her voice. The creature leaned in cooperatively - as if he could have resisted. . ."Though there's been hell to pay with Charlotte. Everyone knows she wanted that part – and just when we were starting to get along again! Now, she'll probably murder me in my sleep before opening night." Eloise stretched her eyes wide, wiggling her eyebrows, and the creature laughed.

"I won't allow it," he shook his head.

"Oh, yes," Eloise breathed, her face growing more serious as she stood upright again, caressing her hand absently over the wood of one of the barrels. "Your promise to see me unharmed."

"Yes," the creature murmured softly, lowering his eyes shyly, though his jaw was set firm.

"Well," she sighed, I won't say I'm not glad that someone cares what happens to me." The creature raised his eyes to meet her. "It seems a long time since that's been the case." She grinned sadly. So did the creature. "And I'll admit you're living up to your word thus far." The creature watched mutely. Eloise stepped closer. "You know, I care what happens to you, too," Eloise told him quietly, her hand pausing in its trail along the wood of the barrel.

The creature could not think what to say, as he stood before her, his heart burning. He had to look away from her gentle eyes. She reached out and took his hand, her fingers sliding over his deathly flesh like silk. His lips parted in surprise. He was more surprised when Eloise looked down in horror at their joined hands.

"Good lord! Your hands are always cold, but now you're frozen through!"

The creature withdrew his hand at once, stepping away from her, instinctively hiding his face behind his hair. "I was. . .outside. . .bringing in the barrels from the alley. It's very cold outside today."

Eloise stepped around so she could see his face again, and he glanced at her worriedly. But her expression was calm and kind as she declared, "Then we must get you a hot meal right away, and a place by the fire, to warm you, you poor creature!"

Creature.

Not man.

He shifted away from her again, looking down as the house of cards that was his hope began to teeter. He pictured himself walking down the street with her at his side, or sitting with her at a pub. Drawing attention to himself. Drawing attention to her with his hideousness. When unfavorable attention already seemed to find her wherever she went.

"What is it?" asked Eloise, following, but he would not turn to her.

"You go on," he breathed quietly.

"Come with me!" she urged him, still following as he began to walk away down the backstage corridor. "I know a really lovely place that I tried last week. . ."

"No," he cut her off quietly. Creature. Creature. Creature. He was a creature, a walking, speaking corpse. Not a man. She surely found that 'really lovely place' while dining with a man. A man. A living, mortal, beautiful man. Surely, that was her preference.

"Have I said something wrong, Friend?" Eloise's voice sounded wounded as she continued to follow close behind him.

"No," he shook his head, stopping in the dimness between lamps to turn to her. "You go on," he repeated. "Without me." And with that, he strode to the top of the basement stair.

"You don't want to be seen with me, because of what I am," her voice sounded behind him, quiet and disappointed.

The creature's brow furrowed in disbelief, and he checked, frozen in surprise and confusion.

"What _you_ are?" he said softly, turning, puzzled.

"What I _was_ ," she breathed, her face downcast, ashamed.

He remembered the men who had accosted her during their outing with Vincent. Their greedy faces, leering at her. More than once, the creature had watched Simon with Charlotte, peering through the floor grate at them as they were joined in secret. He had witnessed back alley encounters of whores and johns. He had listened in on dozens of lurid conversations by now, among the stagehands and actors, and out on the streets. He understood what happened between men and women. He imagined the leering men's hands on Eloise and burned. He took a step back up toward her, then hesitated, keeping his face partly shadowed. She remained still, where she stood, but looked up slowly. She stood on the step above him, their eyes level, as they had been when he brought her the orange – a memory that made him ache with gladness, which only served to make him burn more fiercely now.

"Do you really imagine that _I_ ," he emphasized, touching a pale hand to his breast, "could be ashamed of _you?_ " His incredulity was all-consuming.

"Are you?" Eloise asked, a little line between her brows, her soft eyes vulnerable.

She was serious. What a cruel, terrible world was this, where a beautiful woman, soft and gentle and endlessly kind, could feel so unwanted, even by such a thing as _him!_ What horrible times must she have endured to leave her so desolate? His eyes, beneath a brow furrowed in deep, pitying bewilderment, traced the perfect lines of her soft, smooth, beautiful face. She waited for a response, but all he could do was stare aghast, speechless with feeling. Jerkily, his hand rose to touch her face, a sudden yearning overtaking him to comfort her, as she had comforted him.

But the unanticipated motion frightened Eloise, who flinched away from his touch. This caused the creature to startle, as well, and the two of them each stepped clumsily back from the other.

"I'm sorry," he uttered miserably, and turned swiftly, sweeping down into the shadows of the basement.

"Friend!" she called after him, but she did not follow.

He sat curled in the corner on his mattress, a place he rarely took for lack of any need to sleep, but now the softness was some comfort to him. He leaned against the wall, facing the corner, the threadbare blanket bundled in a ball that he clutched between his chest and his folded knees. His scars scraped on the bricks as he dragged his face lightly against the cold wall. He squeezed his eyes shut against the next wave of feeling as it threatened to overcome him. He was tired of weeping. He was tired of hating himself for what he was, and for the wrong choices he kept making. Eloise, in her infinite kindness, had told him that every moment was a chance to make a better choice, and he had taken that to heart. But why did he keep making the wrong choices? Why did he not understand how to _be?_ Why could he not possess the social ease and grace that seemed to come so naturally to others?

But he knew why.

He was like no other.

He was the creature. The lonely abomination. The ghoul that dwelt with the rats in the basement. And he was made for suffering.

"Friend?"

He picked his head up at once. But surely he had imagined that blessed sound. The slow beat of his undead heart was all he could hear in the quiet night of the empty theater. But it came again.

"Friend? May I come down?"

He scrambled up from the mattress, frowning in disbelief.

Her voice sounded again, meek and touched by doubt now. "Are you here? May I. . .see you?"

"Yes," he gasped, fumbling to turn up his lamp as he tugged at his hair.

Her footsteps came down the stair. "Were you sleeping?" she checked, halting her progress at the foot of the stair with worry.

"No," he shook his head. "I don't sleep," he admitted, then pinched his mouth tightly shut.

"I know the feeling," Eloise sighed with a sympathetic grin. She was standing with her arms raised in front of her, holding a fabric-wrapped bundle.

"Ah, come in," he gestured to her.

"I've brought us some dinner," she announced, giving him a significant look, "from that place I was telling you about." The creature stood in silent shock. There was something tense about her voice, and she shuddered. "Are you hungry? Will you eat with me?" She grinned hopefully at him, with still a trace of doubt in her eye.

"Yes," he agreed, his face softening, moved. "Thank you."

Eloise smiled, pleased. She placed her cargo on the floor and unwrapped it. Inside was a small wooden crate that held what appeared to be paper bundles – wrapped food, by the delicious smells that emanated from them. As she drew herself upright again, she convulsed bodily. The creature paused, noticing that snowflakes clung to her hair and her dress. Looking down, he saw that she had used her cloak to wrap their food. How far had she walked without it? Following his gaze, she admitted meekly, "I didn't want your food to be cold."

The creature was amazed that his heart could take any more feeling.

"I'll light my stove for you," he told her, jumping into action at once. "Here." He snatched the blanket from the corner and held it up. Eloise stepped toward him, shivering, with a grateful grin, and he draped the blanket around her shoulders. She clutched it tightly around herself and settled on the floor in front of their food, beginning to unpack it as he brought the fire in his little stove to life. Then he pulled Eloise's cloak out from beneath the crate and added it around her, over his blanket. Cautiously, he settled next to her on the floor.

"Potatoes, ham, and some sort of relatively greenish vegetable," Eloise pointed to each bundle she had laid out. "Bread, and I even ordered pudding!" she turned her wide, cheerful eyes to him, raising her eyebrows with a comical wiggle. The creature smiled.

"This is very kind," he murmured quietly.

"It's my pleasure, Friend," she told him sincerely. "Now, before we begin," she said then, rising up on her knees, "we have only to find the box in which we keep the plates and cutlery. Do you remember? From the dinner scene in The Aged Crone?"

"Yes," the creature chuckled, rising and helping her up.

Together, they managed to locate it in a moment, and before long, they were happily dining together before the little stove, conversing comfortably about the goings-on of the theater, about life, about the poetry he had been reading of late.

An amiable lull in the conversation came a few minutes after they had done eating, and Eloise, growing serious, gently said, "Friend, I'm sorry if I did something to offend you, before."

"No," the creature shook his head with a little sigh. He grew very solemn, then, lowering his eyes as he said, "I'm sorry I frightened you."

"Oh," Eloise sighed, "No, it's. . ." she shook her head, and the creature looked up, interested, hopeful. "All men frighten me. . .remember?" she breathed quietly, a little furrow in her brow.

"Yes," the creature sighed.

"I suppose I. . .thought you were going to strike me," she whispered, shaking her head at herself.

The creature ached, frowning. "That was far from my intention."

"I know," she sighed, tilting her head as their eyes connected. "It's a. . .habit of mine, I suppose," she looked down, tracing the edge of her plate with a fingertip.

"To recoil?"

She nodded. "A learned behavior. Like you, hiding your face," she whispered, looking up. "We all do things to protect ourselves from the cruelty of the world, real and perceived," she added. The creature held her eyes, thoughtful, for a moment. Then Eloise lit up, leaned toward him a little, and said, "Do you know what I have always wanted to do, since my arrival in this place?" An interested grin was the creature's answer, so she went on. "To go up the trap door!" She searched his face, eagerly.

The creature's grin broke into a full smile. He stood and helped her up. "Come on, then!"

Eloise giggled in joyful anticipation as he hurried to the switch, igniting the stage lights above. He helped her up onto the platform and took his place at the crank. She watched him, shifting her weight eagerly from one foot to the other. She waited, her eyes alight.

The creature leaned back, and announced dramatically, "The Grand Guignol is proud to present. . ." Here, he pulled a rope, and the trap door swung open. Light from above bathed Eloise's beaming face, and the creature laughed as he finished, "the beautiful, the talented, the astonishing. . .Miss Eloise Hargrave!" And with that, he bore down and turned the crank, whisking her upward with speed born of his inhuman strength. Before she disappeared from his sight, he saw her raise her arms to present herself to the invisible audience, and then the sound of her delighted giggling sounded through the floor boards of the stage. He darted over to the other trap door and dropped it open, then pulled his head and arms up through, hanging by his elbows over the edge of the opening. Eloise spun to face him, all laughter and light. "Was it everything you hoped for?" He beamed at her.

"I feel positively magical!" she laughed out loud, and so did the creature. She spun around once, her skirts swirling about her. "All right," she said then, dropping her voice to a dramatic whisper, "let's get out of here before we're caught!" They chuckled together.

"The going back down is the hard part, as it's a straight drop," he warned her.

"I hadn't thought of that," she grimaced, and they chuckled together again.

"Shall I catch you?" he offered hesitantly.

But Eloise nodded enthusiastically, so the creature jerked his head back to gesture her toward the opening from which he protruded. He dropped himself back down into the basement and looked up. Eloise bent over, peering down at him through the hole. "You promise to catch me?" she giggled, pressing her fingertips to her cheeks nervously.

"I will," he swore, holding out his arms, ready. He beamed up at her, twitching his fingers once and nodding to indicate he was ready.

"Agh!" she squeaked. "Are you sure?" She giggled nervously, dancing in place.

"Yes," the creature laughed.

"All right," she sighed humorously. "You know Vincent will have both our heads if I break an ankle. . ."  
"You won't," the creature laughed. "Go on!" he urged her gently.

"Here I come!" she cried softly, and with a little, stifled scream, she jumped out over the open space and fell through. He caught her with no trouble at all, cradling her safely in his arms. She was a bundle of laughter, and he laughed with her as he lowered her feet to the platform and helped her down to the floor.

"Will you have a turn?" she asked in delight as the idea suddenly struck her.

"Oh," breathed the creature in surprise, then chuckled as he told her, "I don't think you could work the crank, I'm afraid."

"I come from good, sturdy German stock on my mother's side," Eloise frowned comically, squeezing her bicep.

"Give it a go, then," he dared her, gesturing to the crank as he stood fast on the platform, his arms crossed.

Staring him fiercely in the eye, Eloise made a show of rolling up her sleeves, pretended to spit in her palms, rubbed them together dramatically, and took hold of the crank. "Ready?" she asked him. He nodded, stifling a smile. " _Eeyagh!_ " Eloise grunted, fighting the crank, which she could barely budge. She doubled over with laughter then, her arms hanging slack, and the creature laughed, climbing down.

"I thought as much," he teased her, shaking his head in mock disappointment. She shoved him playfully by the arm as he made his way to reset the trap door.

"What a miserable stage rat I would make!" she lamented through her laughter.

"And I, a miserable ingenue," he observed as he turned down the stage lights above.

"Oh, I don't know," Eloise sighed. "You might look quite fetching in my blue dress from Act Two," she teased. The creature merely shook his head, grinning.

Eloise was still smiling when he joined her by the stove after resetting all the equipment. She was wrapped in his blanket and her cloak again, merged as one layer for the time being. "Thank you, Friend," she laughed, and he bowed his head in a stately manner, closing his eyes with a grin, which only made her giggle more. Growing quiet in another moment, she softly said, "I wonder if you will ever tell me your name. . ."

The creature lowered his eyes, himself quieted, then gazed into the light of the stove. He hesitated, then admitted, "I don't remember it."

There was a pause, then Eloise murmured quietly, "Because of your. . .injury?"

"Yes," he nodded with a sheepish glance. "I. . .don't remember anything from before that."

"Nothing at all?" she gasped sympathetically. He shook his head. "Oh," she sighed, and they were both contemplative for a moment. "Well, would you. . .like to have a new name?" she asked timidly, adjusting the blanket and cloak about herself as she glanced tentatively at him.

He regarded her thoughtfully, looking over her gentle face. He swallowed. "What sort of name?"

"Well, any sort you'd like!" Eloise grinned.

The creature blinked into the light of the stove, thinking. "I suppose I'd like to have a. . .normal. . .name," he breathed shyly, significantly, and cast another sheepish glance at Eloise, who grinned sweetly.

"Do you have one in mind?" she asked. He slowly shook his head. "That's all right. What about. . .George?" He shook his head. "Thomas? Edmund? Henry? William? William is a good, classic name," she offered, but he had shaken his head to all of those. "Stephen? Christopher? Matthew? Reginald? Charles? Joseph? Frederick?" They chuckled together as he considered, and ultimately refused, all of those. "Robert? Richard? Alfred?" laughed Eloise, but the creature shook his head. "David? Harry? Samuel?" She paused. "John?"

"John," he repeated.

"John?" Eloise perked up. "Does that feel right?"

"I. . .don't know if it's _right_ ," the creature told her, "but I. . .like John."

"John," Eloise sounded it again, grinning. "John, then?" she checked.

"Yes," he sighed happily. "John. . .Clare," he said after a moment of reflection. "Like the poet."

Eloise's delicate hand appeared from between the folds of her cloak. Looking him intently in the eye, she smiled broadly and declared, "I am honored to make your acquaintance, John Clare."

John took her hand and shook it firmly, beaming. "It's an honor to meet you, Eloise Hargrave."

There was an extended period of calm, peaceful quiet then as each traversed his or her own thoughts, until Eloise yawned, stirring and stretching. "I've a costume fitting in the morning," she sighed, pursing her lips in comical disapproval.

"Off to bed with you, then," John chuckled gently.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," she sighed, grinning, and he rose and helped her to stand.

"Eloise," John breathed meekly, and she looked up at him. " _Thank_ you." He felt his hands start to tremble with strong feeling as he gazed down upon her. Now that she was leaving, a fierce, ugly, selfish need to keep her here threatened to consume him.

Oblivious, a slow, sweet grin grew on her sleepy face as she extracted his blanket from beneath her cloak. As she bundled the blanket to hand it to him, she leaned up and gave him a little kiss on his scarred cheek. Fearlessly. Unabashedly. Genuinely. "Goodnight, John," she breathed softly.

His mouth burned with the need to touch hers. Uncontrollably, he found himself lurching forward and seizing her arms, and Eloise froze stiff, staring up at him with wide eyes. "John!" she breathed, pleading, frightened. He twitched, battling himself, madly struggling to control his urge to crush his lips to hers, to consume her like the unholy beast he was. His head gravitated toward hers, and she stared up at him, betrayed. His heart lurched painfully in his tortured breast.

"I'm. . .sorry," he sighed, releasing her roughly. He wanted to tell her that she was the only thing that made him feel human. That he hated himself at all times except when her gentle eyes looked upon him. That he hated himself most when he frightened her. Because she was the only light in all his dark world. That she was the warmth that beat through his cold veins. That whenever she was gone he was a wraith. That she alone gave his reborn life any sense of purpose or reason. He dropped his eyes from hers and took a staggering step back, loathing himself.

"You must be. . .patient with me," Eloise whispered in anguish, and he looked up to find that tears bloomed in her pretty eyes. "I don't know, yet, what I. . .what we. . ." she trailed off, shaking her head, then handed the blanket to him, turned with a last beleaguered look that he felt cut through him like a blade, and glided swiftly away.

He clutched the blanket to himself greedily as her steps faded into the distance. It was impossibly warm with the heat from her body. Sinking to the floor in a miserable heap, he clasped it to his face as the first paralyzing sob wracked him.

"Hello, John," that familiar voice called softly up from the stage the following morning. John felt a wave of electricity course through his body, leaving him hot and then cold in turn. Reluctantly, he set down the rigging he was working on and peered over the edge of the catwalk. Eloise stood below.

"Eloise," he acknowledged shyly.

She grinned sadly up at him. After a pause, she asked, "How are you, Mr. John Clare?" with a more cheerful grin, drawing an answering one from him.

"I'm. . .well," he told her, swallowing. He leaned his hands on the rail. "Are you well?"

"I am, thank you," she replied amiably. "I was wondering if you might like a visit. That is," she hesitated, "if you're not too busy with. . .that." She pointed to the rigging.

As if he could possibly care half as much about the rigging as he did about seeing Eloise. He marveled that she still desired to see him, and thanked whatever higher power may be, for the patience and mercy of her dear heart. It was late morning, and a rehearsal was scheduled in an hour and a half, when the company returned from lunch. The device he was rigging was a matter of no urgency, as it would not be needed until the following afternoon, but he had sought out work to keep his hands and mind busy until he was needed again. Everything was easier, if he kept himself occupied.

"No," he breathed eagerly, though nervously, "of course!" And he made his way down from the catwalk, then stood bashfully before her, wiping his hands on his handkerchief without meeting her eye.

"Shall we go to the basement?" Eloise gently suggested after a pause.

"Ah, yes," John agreed, and the two proceeded. "Ah, how was your costume fitting this morning?" he asked, remembering.

"Endless," scoffed Eloise, and John offered her a sympathetic grin. "Millie was sizing down an old gown for me, and she must have been out too late last night, because she kept piercing me with pins. I'm sure I've never bled so much for this theater since the night I tumbled over the crate," she finished with a little laugh.

"And let's hope that was the worst of it!" John raised his eyebrows as they chuckled together.

They reached the basement over some more idle chatter, and John offered Eloise his little wooden stool and a cup of water, which she accepted graciously. When they were seated together, Eloise grinned sadly at him, tilting her head, then drew in a deep breath and said, "Would it be all right if I speak of unpleasant things, and pleasant things, all at once?"

He nodded, a little line forming between his brow, and swallowed, listening, his eyes fixed intently on hers.

"John Clare," she breathed significantly, smiling again at the memory of their shared moment of naming him, "I am so very glad I came to work here, and met you. It's been a terribly long time since I had such a friend as you. You're _very_ precious to me." She regarded him in absolute earnest, tilting her head.

John grinned, his heart glowing, his breath growing restless. "And you to me," he murmured softly. Eloise smiled sweetly, then continued.

"We've never really spoken of my past," she said, her grin fading, "and I feel we should, or else. . .you might think. . ." she broke off, glancing down and biting her lip, then sniffed a little laugh out her nose, looking up with a furrowed brow as she breathed, "This is all very difficult to put into words."

"Might I. . .help in any way?" John asked gently after a pause.

"Bless you," Eloise chuckled wistfully, then gathered her thoughts. "What I need you to understand is that I'm. . .frightened. All the time. And it's not because of. . .how you look," she finished.

All this, she had told him before. And yet it was comforting to hear, for his part; but at the same time, apprehension gripped him. "Will you tell me of your fears?" he asked, his face open and welcoming.

"Yes," she sighed with a certain degree of visible relief. "That's what I wanted to speak to you about." John gave her a little, encouraging nod. She drew in a breath, and began. "You like me. I mean, as a man. . .likes a woman. I can tell that you do," she observed.

John swallowed nervously but very bravely held her eyes. "Yes," he breathed, his insides seizing at this admission.

"It doesn't bother you? What I was?" Eloise asked.

"No," John shook his head at once, then thought. "Why should it?"

"You'd be surprised, then," she raised her eyebrows, sighing, then frowned. "It's one of the great hypocrisies of men – they'll ravage a woman, then spit on her and call her a whore." She paused, wetting her lips as she stared for a beat at the floor. When she was ready, she raised her eyes. "But you don't look at me like that. You look at me like. . ." her brow furrowed sadly as she puzzled it out, "like I _matter_. You have a sort of. . .innocence about you, in that way."

"I. . .am not innocent," John admitted reluctantly, his voice dark with sorrow and worry. "I have done terrible things," he whispered.

"I love you no less for it," Eloise shrugged, shaking her head. John swallowed, his heart lurching. _Love._ "I treasure our visits, our conversations," Eloise told him sincerely. "I treasure the man I know, the man I see before me, the man whose words and actions I witness. I care only for the things you do today, and tomorrow, and on into the future. I will go on. . .feeling as I do, about you, particularly so long as you are _kind_ and _gentle_ to me," she breathed in nearly a whisper, her eyes fixed on his significantly. "That is what I require," she finished, then paused, allowing him to process all this.

"Yes." He hung his head, remembering her frightened eyes the night before. "I am sorry."

"I know," she said gently at once, raising a hand with a little, dismissive wave. "That's not why I mention it." She halted again, and John bravely raised his face, searching hers as he waited for her to go on. She leaned forward, setting down her cup of water. "Before you think my hesitation has anything to do with this," here she paused and caressed his scarred face, "I need you to understand, John. I've not even yet been free of. . .that _life_. . .a year!" She shook her head, anguished. John was patient, watching intently, forcing himself to remain calm under the warm intoxication of her doting touch.

Eloise leaned back, dropping her hands, and continued. "It weighs upon me still." She looked down, then away. "Sometimes I wake in the night and think I am still. . .there." She looked to him, her eyes beginning to glisten. "You say you cannot remember your life. But I am cursed to remember _all_ of mine, in terrible detail." Here, she stood and took a few steps, turning away, her hands rising to her face. "And, as you yourself have _seen_ , those horrors are not limited to women who live such a life. . .That sorrow. . .that. . .danger. . .follows all women, always. . .a constant threat. I cannot escape the roving eyes and hands of men, wherever I should go," she whispered almost to herself, and shuddered. John remembered the splinters of the catwalk rail falling from his fingers. He shifted restlessly, wanting desperately to go to her, but restrained himself. She went on, without facing him, her voice small. "Has something. . .so _awful. . ._ ever happened to you, that, forever after, you live in abject terror of it happening again?" Slowly, she turned to meet him. "To where you would do _anything_ to avoid it?" She paused, and John's lips parted, his brow furrowed with sympathetic anguish. "For a decade, my every day and night was a living nightmare. It _never ended_. It only _changed_ periodically, to present some fresh sort of hell. Until Vincent found me," she breathed, her hands clutched to her breast and her eyes far away, "and brought me here." There was another pause, during which John noticed that Eloise's hands trembled. She stared blankly into the air. "It's better here. So very much better. I don't have to. . ." she broke off, shaking her head as a tear feel down her cheek. John twitched in his seat, frustrated and helpless. Eloise stood quivering before him, her breath tremulous as she stared him fiercely in the eye, gathering her courage, and declared, "What you want from me – what. . .all men want from women - you will have to wait to be given, or not have at all. I would rather die than endure another man's unwanted touch." She shuddered strongly, and John squeezed his hands over his knees to keep from rising and taking her into his arms.

Until he met Eloise, he had, in all his self-pity, drowning in his own loneliness, never paused to consider for more than a moment what life must be like for any of the women he encountered, let alone one like Eloise; what his satisfaction at being able to have a woman might truly cost _her._ This profound realization struck him heavily, reverberating painfully through his being like a fist on metal. "I never mean to harm you," he rasped adamantly, his heart twisting and writhing within. "I would never wish that."

"I believe you," Eloise sniffed.

"I am. . .clumsy. . .in the ways of all things to do with affection and love," he struggled to say. "I never learned those arts. I was never taught tenderness, or goodness, or gentleness. And other women. . .shun me," he added, barely audible, at his most vulnerable yet.

"I cannot imagine what loneliness you have known, my dear," Eloise breathed sadly, stepping toward him.

"But that does not excuse boorish behavior," John cast his eyes down, guilty and cross with himself, and reflected. It was his anger – his rage – that was so very dangerous. No. . .his _fear_. He swallowed, realizing this. If he could only control his fear of the pain of being alone, he would not be so. . .fierce. And isn't that what Eloise was trying to help him with now? Assuring him that, if he could only believe she cared for him, and if he was patient and gentle. . .then. . .what? Then. . .one day she might. . .be his? Might love him? Might be his, to love? He looked up, his own eyes glossy with feeling. "Will you help me? Will you teach me how?"

"Yes," Eloise nodded, relieved. "I am doing so now," she gestured shyly toward him.

"So you are," he chuckled gently, with a melancholy grin.

She watched him for a moment, then stepped toward him, reaching out her trembling hands. Cautiously, he stood and took them, and Eloise drew close. She blinked up at him, slow tears trailing down. With her eyes fixed warily on his, Eloise raised John's hands to her own face. He spread them carefully over her cheeks, a shuddering breath escaping his lips. He had never felt anything so exquisitely soft and warm as her beautiful face. He cradled her softly in his hands, then drew careful, delicate caresses down her cheeks. Eloise closed her eyes, her brow furrowing as she sighed.

When she opened her eyes, a slow grin grew on her face. John stroked careful thumbs whispering across her cheeks to wipe away her tears, though this gentleness seemed to draw new tears forth. His own chest was tight and knotted with emotion, and he blinked to clear his vision. He felt her hands slide around his waist as she drew even nearer, and he gasped softly as she laid her head against him, her body pressing lightly along his. John's eyes filled with tears, and he held her carefully, one big, white hand on her head, the other across her shoulders. Eloise gave a shudder, then grew quiet, hugging him close, her arms wrapped securely around his body.

John squeezed his eyes tightly shut, burning, and cautiously lay his face against her hair. His entire body buzzed and crackled with electric joy - a fierce, excruciating jubilation beyond any he had yet known, and he reveled in it, marveled at it, breathed it in and out in measured, restrained, tremulous breaths. Eloise, still fighting her own battle, gave an occasional shudder against him, which he answered with a little caress of each of his hands upon her.

And so they stood for some time, John finally understanding so much more of the poetry he had read, his mind reeling, whirling, filled with a tumult of words remembered, yet fogged and clouded by sheer, wordless emotion.

In time, though she remained still, Eloise sighed and spoke, her words muffled and soft against his breast, "I ought to go and look over my lines for rehearsal." And finally, to John's uncontrollable dismay, she pulled gently away. She looked up at him and sniffed, then reached up to touch his cheeks, where he realized tears clung to mirror Eloise's own. "I'll visit again soon, shall I?" she whispered.

"Please," John gasped with far more feeling than he intended to emit, his hands twitching at her waist, where he realized they had fallen. Eloise only grinned kindly, without judgment.

"I will," she assured him with a tender smile as she drew away, taking his hands in hers again. She seemed to consider something for a moment, then, watching him carefully, leaned up and pressed her lips to his scarred cheek, holding her face there for a beat, then withdrew. "Now you," she whispered, and turned her cheek upward to him. Eagerly, John leaned down, checked, then very softly touched his lips to Eloise's cheek, though he had to screw his eyes shut in anguished joy. He withdrew and was rewarded with a broad, gleaming smile from her. "Well done," she breathed, and they chuckled together.

"I hope it is a successful rehearsal," he told her kindly as she gave him back his hands.

"You can let me know what you think later, as I'm sure you'll be listening or watching from somewhereabouts," she beamed, and they both laughed.

He watched her glide away and light up the stair, his heart lurching painfully, his hand pressed hard against his breast, the other touched against his lips, which seemed to tingle from the warmth of her skin.

 **CHAPTER SIX**

 **STORM**

Very late one night, long after the residents had returned to their dormitories, a mighty storm blew in, bringing with it rolling thunder, flickering lightning, and steady, heavy rain. John was thankful his basement home did not leak, for though he did not feel cold or discomfort quite the way mortals did, he still did not relish the feeling of soggy clothes or the smell of mildew, and though he had little in the world, he at least prided himself on having a place to stay that offered even that meager advantage, and was thankful for it.

Murmuring verse to himself as he traced his finger over the page of his book, reading, John tilted back on his little stool, stretching out his legs before him, not because they ever really grew stiff or tired, but simply for something different to do. He turned the page, musing that he would like to acquire a new book soon, as he was coming to know all of his nearly by heart.

"John?" the faintest whisper encroached upon his consciousness, so quiet that he very nearly dismissed it as his imagination. "John," it came again, with ever so slightly more volume, "are you awake?" John turned and saw, peeking into sight at the stair, the bottom of a nightgown and dressing robe. The little slipper-clad feet climbed down a few more steps, pausing again. "John?"

John grinned and stood. "I am here," he answered, and Eloise came into view, slowly smoothing back her hair behind her ear.

"You're still dressed! Good lord! What time do you go to bed, you poor thing?" Eloise yawned, and John chuckled, glancing at her sheepishly, then to his rarely-used mattress in the corner, thinking that if she were going to be popping in all the time, he had better work on making a better show of living a mortal life.

"Late," he breathed. "Come in." He gestured her forward.

"I hope I'm not bothering you. I've given up sleeping, up there, with this bloody storm shaking the roof apart over us. Everyone's awake up there now because of it, chattering, and that Thomas was making eyes at Charlotte. I'd just as soon not be there for what follows." Eloise blew a breath out between her lips, blinking in sleepy annoyance as she came toward him. John chuckled.

"You're welcome here," he told her.

"I appreciate the refuge," she sighed. "What are you up to? Reading, as usual?" she grinned, gazing down at the book in his hands.

"Yes, ah, Wordsworth, at the moment," he grinned, raising the book. "An old favorite," he reflected, casting his eyes down at the book as he remembered the aching solitude of his first days. How far he had come since then. Such things he had done. . .but now there was Eloise. . .

"Never had the pleasure," Eloise tilted her head, drawing closer. "Will you read to me?" she asked, her voice soft and gentle as she blinked up at him, looking him steadily in the eye.

John's heart warmed. "Yes," he breathed, grinning, and made to pull up seats for them, but checked when he felt her touch on his arm.

"No, you go ahead, back where you were," she told him gently. "Go on," she waved her hand when he only looked at her, unsure. He went to his stool and sat down, leaning his back against the column as usual, watching her. "May I borrow your blanket again?" she asked, already heading toward it, then paused to check for affirmation. John nodded, and Eloise procured his blanket, wrapped it around herself, and walked toward him. He was pleasantly surprised when she sat on the floor close beside him and leaned against his leg. "May I sit here?" she asked, blinking up at him. "I'm far too tired to sit upright after all that jumping about in rehearsal all day."

"As you like," he breathed happily, clutching his book.

Eloise grinned, yawned, and settled her head against his thigh. "Thank you," she murmured. "I'm ready for Mr. Wordsworth now."

"Ah. . ." John breathed, distracted, turning through the pages until he found one of his favorites. He meekly told her as much, then began to read. "I wandered lonely as a cloud, that floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils, Beside the lake, beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze."

"Oh, that's a lovely image," whispered Eloise, and John felt her hug his lower leg with her hands as she adjusted herself, leaning into him and growing more comfortable.

His breath caught happily in his throat. He swallowed and went on. "Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance." He glanced down at Eloise, whose eyes were closed and whose soft mouth curved in a contented grin. "The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: - A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company: I gazed – and gazed – but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought. For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils." He finished, relishing the last line, and looked to Eloise.

Raising her head, she enthused, "How beautifully you read, John!"

"Oh," he murmured, lowering his eyes meekly with a shy chuckle.

"Truly you do!" she squeezed his leg. "I'm sorry now that I never asked you to read before!" She smiled up at him, and he down at her. He wanted to stroke her hair but kept his hands fixed on his book. Eloise's grin faded. "I hope all my visits don't disturb the bliss of your solitude, your inward eye," she sighed, lowering her gaze.

"Oh, no!" he breathed at once, and she looked up in cautious hope. "I fear I have known far, far too much solitude," he told her in a timid whisper. Eloise sniffed a sad little laugh out her nose, squeezing him with her hands, and nuzzled her cheek against his leg.

"I hope I can help you there," she breathed.

"Yes," he sighed, closing his eyes with pleasure at the warmth of her pressed against his side. Then, after savoring this for a moment, he asked, "Shall I read another?"

"Will you read that one again?"John smiled, and did as she asked. Then he turned the pages, seeking another of his favorites to read, but paused when Eloise spoke. "What are your daffodils?" she asked. John checked, gazing down in bewilderment. Eloise raised her head and clarified, "What memory do you hold to, when your heart needs cheering?" His lips parted and his brow furrowed with feeling, but he could not bring himself to voice his answer as her eyes held his. Eloise lay her head down again, and she told him, "Mine is my father at his harp." John raised his eyebrows in curious surprise. Eloise went on after a pause. "He played in the orchestra for the opera. He used to practice for hours and hours, and I would listen to that beautiful sound. . ." She slowly picked up her head, but did not look at him as she reflected, "Once I was old enough to reliably behave myself, I was allowed to go sometimes to listen to him practice with other musicians. Such music they made!" She closed her eyes, savoring the memory with a sigh. "He was just beginning to teach me to play, when. . .when he died." She lay her head down again. "But my memory of him sitting there, playing his beautiful harp. . .I think of that, when I'm. . .if I. . .ever need to," she finished.

"Did you leave the opera. . .after. . .?" John asked gently.

"Yes," Eloise nodded against his thigh. "I was taken in by my cousin, a man I'd hardly ever met. He was. . .unkind," her voice hardened. "He. . ." she trailed off. "He. . .sold me. When I was fifteen." John's brow furrowed, this understanding bringing horror, and horror bringing heartbreak that tore at him. There was a pause during which he wondered if she would like him to stroke her hair or not, and fought his nearly overwhelming desire to do so. Then Eloise raised her head. "Your voice is so beautiful, John. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"No," he breathed in shy surprise.

"It is. Like a bassoon. Have you ever heard one?"

"No," he shook his head.

Eloise looked into the distance, remembering. "Yes, you're either a bass clarinet or a big bassoon. They're large instruments. Woodwinds – made of wood, sounded by blowing air through them. Airy but deep, in their lower registers. A rich sound. Resonant. It is the voice a tree would have, if it could speak. Yours is like a beautiful, great willow with long, sweeping branches." She blinked up at him earnestly.

John smiled. "Could my voice ever compare to such a thing?" he asked in quiet incredulity.

"I have thought it since the first time I heard you speak. One day, we shall have to go to the opera together, and you can listen for yourself," Eloise smiled, then lay her head along his leg once more. John's eyes filled with tears again. He swallowed. Eloise went on. "Vincent sounds like a guitar, but when the player strikes the strings too hard. Charlotte is an oboe. Simon, a trumpet." They chuckled together. "Will you read me another?" Eloise asked then, yawning.

"Yes," John agreed readily, thumbing through the pages, then realized as verses rose up in his mind that he already knew by heart the words he wished to read to her, for they had been resonating with him since the first time she had ever spoken to him, the very night, by her account, that she had decided he sounded like a bass clarinet or bassoon. His breath shuddered slightly as he gathered his courage, and his fingers fidgeted, smoothing down the page of the book that happened to be open before him, but as he recited without need for written words, he fixed his eyes on Eloise's lowered head, and spoke with deep feeling, wishing to imbue all his desperate, aching affection into the words:

"She was a Phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;

A lovely Apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;

But all things else about her drawn

From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;

A dancing Shape, an image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

Her household motions light and free,

And steps of. . ." here, he hesitated, "virgin-liberty;" but Eloise remained still. He continued.

"A countenance in which did meet

Sweet records, promises as sweet;

A Creature not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food,

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles." Here, Eloise raised her head, gazing up at him with somewhat widened eyes at his impassioned recitation. John continued, bravely holding her intent gaze:

"And now I see with eye serene

The very pulse of the machine;

A Being breathing thoughtful breath,

A Traveller between life and death;

The reason firm, the temperate will,

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;

A perfect Woman, nobly planned,

To warm, to comfort, and command;

And yet a Spirit still, and bright

With something of angelic light."

He gasped as he finished, his hands trembling. Eloise sat upright and stared up at him with glistening eyes, her hands clutching his leg. He blinked to clear his eyes as he said, "You asked me, what are my daffodils - what do I reflect upon when in pensive solitude. What. . .fills my heart with gladness, driving out the darkness." Eloise regarded him with interest. He mustered all his courage and whispered tremulously, "You are, Eloise. You are. . .my daffodils." His lips twitched nervously, but he kept his eyes locked on hers.

Eloise gasped as her smooth, pretty brow furrowed and the first tears spilled down her cheek. Without a word, she slowly rose and dropped his blanket to the floor. John held his breath, amazed, his eyes wide in disbelief as Eloise leaned down, put her arms around his neck, and gracefully sat herself on his lap. He shuddered as she swept his hair back over his shoulders with her hands and began to lay tender kisses all over his deathly, repulsive, scarred face and head. No longer able to help himself, he wept with open joy. "It's all right, my darling," Eloise whispered soothingly, her lips sweeping away his tears. He clutched her tightly as she continued to caress his face, to stroke her fingers through his hair, to pass calming touch over his shoulders and neck. She looked him in the eye, taking his face between her doting hands, and grinned sweetly. "You lovely, beautiful man," she breathed earnestly.

"Beautiful?" he repeated in a hushed whisper of disbelief.

"Oh, yes," she nodded, running her fingers tenderly over his face as she whispered, "with your skin like moonlit snow. . .your eyes like liquid flame. . .your mouth like the petals of the darkest rose. . ." and she traced a silken fingertip over his lips, her pretty eyes lowering as she focused upon them.

John gasped, his breath catching in his throat. Leaning down, Eloise took his parted lips upon hers, kissing him softly once, twice. Breathlessly, John took in the overwhelming warmth of this sensation and all the dizzying amazement that accompanied it. Then Eloise slid the tip of her nose alongside his, leaving his face tingling with glowing feeling, and lay her head upon his shoulder, nestling her forehead into his neck. Her fingers continued to trace trails of sweet, burning comfort over his deathly flesh, warming it with every pass as if life could be restored by her doting touch alone.

He didn't know how long they sat this way, his heart breaking, filled and overflowing. It might have been minutes, or hours. Was this a torturously beautiful dream? Or was it actually possible that such an astonishingly wonderful thing as this could happen to _him –_ the lonely, abhorrent creature, the hated one? Surely, in all his aching, desperate solitude, he imagined this grace, this unbearable, agonizing joy! And yet, the solid weight of Eloise upon his lap, the warmth of her skin against his, the soft stroke of her touch over him, the gentle sound of her breath, the beat of her tender heart against his breast, were all undeniably real. She was solid. She was present. And she graced him with doting kindness the likes of which he never could have believed he would receive.

The storm continued outside, indefinitely. But in time, Eloise gave a little yawn, stirring against him, and so he murmured, "Should you sleep?"

"What I _should_ do is not the same as what I _want_ to do, which is to sit here holding you until we both shall happily die," muttered Eloise sleepily, but at the end, she yawned widely. John could only close his eyes in anguished pleasure. "Could I stay with you?" Eloise asked meekly, raising her head to look him in the eye.

"Yes!" John exclaimed in quiet amazement. Then he cast his eyes past her to the grubby corner where his pathetic mattress and pillow lay. "It's not at all _nice_ down here, though, I'm afraid," he warned her apologetically.

"I'm not worried about it. The company, at least, is a right sight better than upstairs," she grinned, blinking slowly. "And quieter," she sighed as lightning flashed outside the window, but the thunder sounded subdued from the depths of his basement abode. She slid off his lap and took his hands, and he stood.

"If you're. . .quite sure," he breathed timidly. Eloise picked up the blanket, nodding. In a continued haze of elated disbelief, John dragged the mattress out, shaking it to lay it out flat and clean, then fluffed the sad little pillow.

"Thank you," Eloise yawned, crawling onto the mattress and scooting herself to one side. "Come on, then," she chuckled softly, blinking up at him with increasingly heavy eyelids.

"Oh!" breathed John, remembering himself. Awkwardly, he lay down beside her on his back, and she flung the blanket over both their bodies.

"No funny business, mind you," Eloise murmured, arranging his arm so that she could lay her head upon his breast, "I'm plumb knackered just now, but I'll slap you silly, come morning."

"No," he breathed, grinning in amusement but shaking his head in agreement with her mandate. "I swear it."

"All right, then," Eloise sighed with one last yawn. John placed cautious hands around her, and Eloise sighed contentedly, settling herself in a warm bundle draping over him. After a moment, she stirred, raising her head, and John tilted his chin down to meet her eyes. "I'm so very glad I am your daffodils," she whispered earnestly, and her fingers traced sweet lines from his temple down to his chin. "I should like _always_ to be your daffodils, bringing you comfort."

"Would you," John whispered, his brow furrowing as his heart seized. Eloise nodded against him. " _I_ should like always to be the kindness and gentleness you require," he returned most earnestly, stroking a tremulous hand over her hair.

Eloise grinned as her eyes glistened. She pulled herself up and kissed him, and kissed him more, and finally drew back, her eyes locked on his. "Whoever, and. . . _what_ ever you may be. . . _I love you_ ," she whispered tremulously.

"And I, you," he sighed breathlessly, his eyes wide. A tearful Eloise lay her head back down, and the two of them clung fiercely together. Silent tears streamed from John's eyes down his temples as his heart, already so burdened with all, fought to bear the pure, radiant, holy elation he now experienced.

And so it was that the lonely creature, reborn into this cruel world in a blaze of lightning and agony, so often relegating himself to shadows and darkness, burned with glorious light as he discovered on that night of storms what it was to truly live again.

-THE END-


End file.
